Chasing Glory
by A Deed Without a Name
Summary: Sequel to "Catching Hell." Following the death of Gordon Walker, Sam Winchester is on the run with Dean, his demon Knight - and on a mission to do what Dean couldn't: complete the Trials and close the Gates of Hell. His fellow hunters, however, are reluctant to let him be, as are the conflicting forces of Heaven and Hell. WARNING: Contains an AU, unrelated Wincest, and demon!Dean.
1. Chapter 1

_You probably know by now that most hunters live on the road and travel light. It cuts down on transit time if you can just go straight from one case to another without having to make a trip back to a permanent location for supplies. Most people also think it's safer, and I'd have to agree, to a certain extent. You're going to get monsters, officers of the law, and maybe even normal people chasing after you at some point (if you're any good, at least), and they'll have a much harder time finding and eating, arresting, or killing you if you don't have a fixed address. Whether or not you spend more than a few minutes there every couple of months, even a mongrel werewolf - pure id, no higher brain function - will know it's your den, and that, eventually, you'll come back._

 _Living out of a car and sleeping in a motel room (or that same car, if you're being really thrifty) is definitely safer and easier, but only physically. You might not give a lot of thought to how losing your home will affect you emotionally. Those few of us who were born into the life, into the travel and the drifting, definitely don't. But pulling up your roots, no matter if it's by choice or necessity, hurts you. You might not feel it right away, but I can guarantee you will eventually._

 _-_ Welcome to Hunting, _Sam Winchester_

* * *

"You know you're limping, right?"

Sam stopped for a second. He felt the sun pouring down on him as he thought his way down to his calves and feet, and consciously shifted his weight. Sweat pooled on his neck, under the heavy weight of his hair, as he started walking again - this time really thinking about it, so he didn't end up favoring either of his two perfectly-good legs. Rocks and dust moved against the soles of his boots, and his feet hurt.

"No," he replied. "I didn't know that."

"Well, you're real bad about it." Sam glanced at Dean as he breezed past him, making it to the top of the bald hill they were climbing almost a full minute before Sam did. Sam kept his eyes on him as he got steadily closer. With the sun behind him, he was just a black silhouette with his hands on his hips. Sam didn't need to see his freckled skin to know there wouldn't be so much as a drop of sweat on it. Even in spite of the denim, flannel, and canvas he was covered in.

"Maybe you should have me practice walking, then." Sam was trying hard not to pant. He'd like to think he was in pretty good shape, for a guy who'd spent the last seven years writing books in a cabin, but it was boiling out here and this hill was really steep. Plus, the duffel bag full of heavy weapons and targets slung across his back was making things difficult. "Instead of shooting. I know how to shoot." He stopped for a second, and did his best to make it look like he was thinking instead of catching his breath. "In fact, I might've been able to shoot before I could read."

"Knowing how big a nerd you are, I seriously doubt that." When Sam finally reached the top of the hill, Dean took the duffel from him; Sam wondered why he hadn't just carried it himself. "And sure, you can shoot, but any moron can aim and pull a trigger. Takes a little more to actually hit stuff...which you can't."

"I can hit stuff." He didn't bother mustering up the energy to sound defensive. Just sat down on the nearest, least-dusty rock as Dean unzipped the bag - and forced himself not to leap back to his feet when the heat of it almost instantly seeped through his jeans and boxers. It wouldn't burn him, but god, was it ever unpleasant. He _hated_ Nevada.

"Sure," Dean agreed. He was kneeling on the ground, apparently still unaffected by the heat, and frowning at the shooting targets as he pulled them out of the bag. "With a shotgun. At close range."

"I'm fine with a pistol, too. And a rifle."

"Not when I asked you to show me how 'fine' you were." He tore the plastic wrap off, sending a couple rectangles of heavy cardboard with targets printed on them straight to the sun-baked dirt. "Couldn't hit a big-ass tree from twenty feet away with a single shot." He picked up a rectangle, frowning at it. "So, do we, like, tape these to stuff, or...?"

"Didn't you buy some kind of stand to put them in, too?" Dean went back to digging through the bag. "I already told you I was tired then. And off-balance."

"Yeah, we need to work on your stance," Dean agreed. He'd found the stand-thing, a frame and legs made out of plastic and metal, and was now trying to figure out how to unfold it. "I'm guessing you practiced all of one time in the last decade, but you were gimpy when you did it, so you've gotta unlearn that."

"Dean, c'mon. It's hot." Sam ran a hand through his hair. His fingers came away wet. "Could you maybe try to be less of a dick?"

"You gotta learn how to shoot," Dean replied, although at least he did sound a little apologetic now. He was gone for a second, popping into view way across the flat top of the hill (did that make it a butte instead of a hill? Sam wasn't even sure what a butte was), and then he was back, having left behind a target on top of another hot rock. "Or get better at it, at least. 'Cause you're not hunting 'til I know you can kill something to save your life, and you're not getting anywhere near the First Trial 'til you've hunted again."

"Fine." Sam guessed he understood Dean's reasoning, and that he was being protective, not controlling. "I still don't get why we can't do this at a shooting range. There're only about a million around here."

"Too crowded." That'd become a common response from Dean in the months since they'd left Sam's cabin and, eventually, Bobby's scrapyard. "Here. Load it."

A handgun and a box of ammunition landed in Sam's lap. Both were familiar. Unlike the targets, they hadn't bought them at the local sporting goods store. Dean had grabbed them when he'd gone back to Sam's cabin to get the notebook the fate of the world more or less depended on, among other things. According to him, the place had been trashed, which Sam had been expecting. It must've only been demons, and stupid ones, in there by the time Dean went, though, because none of his weapons had been taken - not even the Kurdish knife. Hunters (or more competent demons) would've grabbed everything, especially that.

Sam had the gun (a Glock; small and light) loaded in about thirty seconds. He'd always been good at that, courtesy of the roughly one billion hours his dad had had him spend field-stripping every kind of weapon imaginable when he was younger. He glanced up at Dean with a raised eyebrow when he was finished.

"So you don't need to work on that, at least," Dean noted. "C'mon." He helped Sam to his feet, and Sam hoped that how glad he was to be off the rock wasn't too obvious. He followed Dean a ways past the duffel bag, then watched as he dragged an X in the dirt with the toe of his boot. "Stand here. Show me your stance again."

Suppressing a sigh, Sam did as he was told. Feet planted (equally firmly, he made sure), chin lowered, gun raised and arms straight. He saw Dean studying him out of the corner of his eye, his own arms folded.

"Okay, well, you're not as bad as you were last time," he admitted after a little while. "You're self-correcting. That's good." He moved in. "Couple things, though." He corrected Sam with gentle touches. "Your life's gonna be a whole lot easier if you don't lock your elbows. And you don't gotta aim to the right of whatever you're trying to hit."

"Sorry. Guess I was thinking of archery."

"We'll probably end up covering that, too, but guns are more important." Dean took his hands away, apparently satisfied with Sam's stance now. "Wait one sec. Don't shoot yet."

Sam turned his head to see Dean digging into one of the pockets on his jeans. The one he knew he'd started keeping rubber bands in recently. He rolled his eyes.

"My hair's fine, Dean," he told him.

"It's one good breeze away from falling into your eyes," Dean replied, stepping up behind him. He swept his hair back with one hand and wrapped the rubber band around it with the other, movements smooth and practiced; he got all the loose strands in one go, which made Sam suspect he used telekinesis, too. The rubber band caught and pulled slightly at his hair, just like they always did, but wearing actual hair ties (or, god forbid, scrunchies) just felt too...girly.

"There's not gonna be one good breeze. The wind hasn't blown the whole time we've been here," Sam pointed out, though he stood still and let Dean put his hair in a ponytail anyway. "I'm starting to think this entire state's just dead air."

"Desert, end of summer," Dean responded. He stepped back as he finished. "Happens sometimes."

 _I miss the mountains_. Sam thought it, loudly, but didn't say it. He'd kept from whining so far - just barely - and he'd rather not start now. "Wish we could go somewhere cooler."

"Gotta stay out west," Dean reminded him. "East's crawling with demons, not to mention hunters who hate you. And me, but that goes without saying."

Sam grimaced. "Don't remind me."

"Guess we could go north," Dean continued, walking backwards until he could stink down onto a rock of his own, "but north means forests, and forests mean more monsters." He looked around, maybe checking for cars or hikers. Sam couldn't imagine anyone dumb enough to be out in this heat, though. Besides them. "Same with big cities."

"I know." Dean seemed to have a hard time remembering that Sam had grown up hunting, before the wendigo had gotten hold of him. And that he'd stayed in the life even after he'd been hurt. "Can I start shooting now, or...?"

"Sure, so long as you don't want the headphones," Dean said with a shrug.

"Never used 'em before." Sam checked to make sure the gun was lined up correctly, squinting. It was bright up here. Hot and bright. He should've brought sunglasses...did he even own a pair? "Told you not to buy them."

He fired. Three shots in quick succession - grouping, like his father had taught him. The gun kicked against his hands, the recoil familiar and almost comforting, and his biceps automatically tensed to counteract it. Muscle memory in action.

The cardboard shivered, so he knew he'd hit it, but between the light and the distance, he couldn't quite tell where. The air was shimmering, too, where heat was rising from the ground. And now there was sweat in his eyes, which was bothering him way more than his hair ever would have been able to. He'd been about to fire again, but first he lowered the gun and wiped his eyes with one forearm. He'd barely gotten the gun back up before Dean stopped him again.

"Wait, wait, wait." Sam heard him push himself up off of his rock and come over. "Don't shoot." Sam looked at him. He kind of had to, when Dean stepped in front of him and nudged his left leg with one boot. "You're favoring it again."

"Oh, my - " Sam dropped both hands and glanced up at the sky. The gun landed heavily against his thigh, and he realized that he hadn't switched the safety back on. It was basically pure luck that he hadn't just blown a huge hole in his own foot. But then, at least, he would've had a reason to limp. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

"'Course not. It's not your fault." Dean looked at him with something a lot like sympathy. Probably as close as he could get to it right now. Sam knew he was impatient. And inhuman. "It's just the way you've been used to moving and standing for almost a decade. You're not gonna break those habits in only a couple months...plus, the left one's still weaker than the right. We gotta keep working on that."

"I don't even know what I'm doing wrong," Sam admitted. "You wanna...help me out?" He gestured vaguely to his legs. "I've still got a dozen shots left. Might as well take those."

"At least," Dean agreed, before putting his hands on Sam's waist. He jerked back almost as soon as he touched him. "Jesus, Sammy. You're _soaking_."

Sam's lips thinned. He really wasn't sure how he felt about that nickname. His dad had used it, too, and it just sounded weird coming out of Dean's mouth - especially because he knew and had just kept on using it. But, yeah, now that he mentioned it, his T-shirt did seem to be sticking to him pretty bad. And he'd even worn a lighter-colored one.

"Uh, yeah," Sam replied. He could feel the sun on the back of his neck, bare now where Dean had put his hair up, and wondered if he shouldn't've worn sunscreen. But that was another thing he wasn't sure he had, and he didn't even remember the last time he'd burned. He tended to tan instead. "It's boiling up here."

Dean frowned. Sam recognized it: it was the special, guilty frown that popped up on Dean's face whenever he realized that he'd forgotten Sam was human and, therefore, about a million times more fragile than he was. Sam usually saw it at least once a day. He couldn't fault Dean for letting the fact that he was made of very high-maintenance meat slip his mind; after all, they'd been together a few months, but before that, Dean'd spent over a thousand years with other demons.

"Sorry," he said. "Should've thought ahead and brought water. You wanna call it a day?"

"I'm fine," Sam replied. "You're right: I've gotta improve my aim. And I already told you that I've got twelve bullets left in here." He waggled the gun. "Fix my stance and let me finish this up."

"Okay." Dean still looked concerned when he grabbed Sam's hips again and adjusted him, making him put more weight on his left side. To Sam, it felt like he was off-balance now, like the majority of his weight was resting on his left leg. He knew Dean had just equalized him, though. "Soon as that clip's empty, then, I'll go grab the target and we can see how you did. And then I think we'd better get you outta the sun."

"All right," Sam agreed. Partly to humor Dean and partly because he was remembering the rattling, leaking swamp cooler back in their motel room more fondly by the minute. He also wished Dean hadn't mentioned water. He'd kill for a bottle right now.

He aimed again, pulled the trigger. The gunshots echoed across the desert around them. Sam wasn't worried about the local sheriff showing up to investigate. First of all, they were pretty far outside town, and second of all, he heard shots all the time. People came out here to shoot at cans or scorpions or targets, like they were doing. Apparently, there just wasn't that much to do in this town. And nobody else liked the shooting ranges, either.

Using a gun, even to hit a target that wasn't charging at him with fangs and claws bared, was like riding a bike (although Sam had never actually learned to do that): he'd never forgotten and it came back easily. He was relieved. He hadn't wanted to admit it, but Dean had been right about him not practicing his marksmanship all that much while he'd been living at the cabin. He just hadn't really seen the point. He was never going to hunt again, and he wasn't going to have to shoot anything unless it got close enough for him to practically be able to do it with his eyes closed.

He counted the shots he'd fired, because his dad had pounded the importance of that into him when he was still in grade school. He lowered the gun once the last round was out of the chamber. Dean - who'd been focused on the target, eyes having flickered to black when Sam wasn't looking - glanced at him.

"Done?" he asked, eyes returning to normal with that insect-wing sound that Sam had gotten so used to recently.

"Done."

"You didn't do half-bad. Lemme show you." He left, blinking across the hill. Sam didn't even have time to eject the empty clip from the gun before he was back, cardboard target in hand. "See?"

Sam took it when Dean offered it to him. The stand was still attached to it, so it was heavy, and it was black, so it was hot. He eyed it critically. He counted ten bullet holes, and only six were inside the concentric neon rings that'd been printed on the cardboard. None had hit the center.

"You got more than half into the target, at least," Dean pointed out, tone encouraging.

"Yeah, but my aim's still not great," Sam replied. "I need to get better. I mean, some things are like humans, where they'll go down just so long as you put enough bullets in the head or trunk, but with werewolves and skinwalkers, you _have_ to hit the heart. And that's a pretty small target."

"That's exactly why we're doing this," Dean agreed. "But you did way better than I thought you would today. No offense." He took the target back from Sam and separated it from the stand, dropping both into the bag. "We'll keep working on it. Might try to come out here early in the morning next time - you're looking pretty red. And wet."

"It's called 'sweat,' Dean," Sam replied. Seemed like they'd switched attitudes at some point - Dean was optimistic about Sam's shooting ability, and Sam had just admitted that he needed more practice. Maybe it'd been seeing the target, the physical example of what he could and couldn't do. "Humans sweat when they get hot. Remember?"

"I remember that you're gross," Dean said. He held the bag open for the gun, and Sam double-checked that it was empty before putting it in. He'd eject the clip, and then probably reload it, later. "All kinds of crap comes outta you."

"At least I don't smell like rotten eggs." When Dean reached for his shoulder with his free hand, Sam shook his head and took half a step backwards. "I told you - I don't want you teleporting me anymore unless it's an emergency."

"Nobody around to see, but fine." Shrugging, Dean brushed past him on his way to the edge of the hill, and Sam followed.

"You didn't like being teleported when you were human," Sam pointed out, as he began picking his way down the side of the hill. It was steeper going back down than it'd been coming up.

"Not by angels." To his credit, Dean stayed right by Sam the whole way down, keeping the strap of the duffel bag on his shoulder with one hand and steadying him with the other. Even though he could've teleported straight to their car on his own, or just sprinted straight down the hill without knocking a single rock loose. Sam definitely wasn't anywhere near that sure-footed. Dean had to have stopped him from faceplanting on those same sharp, sandy, sun-heated rocks at least half a dozen times.

"Shit!" Sam burned himself on the chrome handle of the car when he grabbed it - it felt like a stovetop. He had to use a handful of his T-shirt to open the passenger side door, and he grimaced as he practically fell inside, the black leather feeling a lot like the rock he'd sat on right after reaching the top of the hill. Maybe a little softer. "Turn on the air conditioning. Now."

"Gonna take a little while to cool down," Dean reminded him, tossing the bag into the back seat before climbing in behind the wheel.

"Wouldn't if we had a car that'd been made in this century." Sam ran his fingers through his hair, heavy and damp, and swore silently to himself as they caught at the base of his short, messy ponytail. It wasn't until he'd yanked the rubber band out and shaken his hair loose that he realized Dean hadn't even put the key in the ignition. Because he was too busy glaring at him. "What?"

"Never mind. I'm not having this conversation with you again." Sam raised his eyebrows briefly, and looked away. That was fine with him. He was starting to feel a little sick to his stomach, and the last thing he needed right now was yet another repeat of Dean's "everything that came off the line after 1980 is crap on wheels" lecture. "You'd think you'd appreciate it, seeing as it's your damn car."

"It was my dad's." And up until several months ago, no one had driven it since he'd died. It'd spent the last seven (nearly eight) years sitting in Bobby's scrapyard, the battery slowly draining and the paint flaking. Sam hadn't thought about it since moving to the cabin. He'd been embarrassed as hell when, shortly after leaving the hospital for the first time, he learned that Bobby had paid to have the damn thing towed all the way from Vermont to South Dakota. All his stuff had already been take out of it, and as far as he'd been concerned, it just could have stayed at the remote trailhead where his father had parked it. Or an impound lot, eventually.

He'd grown up in it, but it hadn't meant anything to him once his dad died. In fact, he hadn't even liked looking at it because of the memories it brought up. Of two perfect legs, having a family, being useful. He'd never been into cars, anyway. Didn't even really like driving all that much. He'd learned at ten, but only because he had to.

Bobby, on the other hand, had _definitely_ been into cars. After all, before hunting - and even during, to a certain extent - they'd been his career: fixing, scrapping, buying, selling. His idea of a relaxing afternoon was replacing an engine (and drinking, but that might've come along with hunting. Or losing Dean. Or both). He'd never quite managed to spark that same kind of love in Sam. It shouldn't've come as a surprise that he'd been more successful with Dean.

"Shame you didn't inherit his good taste," Dean replied, a little bit of acid in his voice as he finally started the car up. The _1967 Chevrolet Impala._ Sam had forgotten its real name, might never have known it, but Dean had made sure that he'd learned it when he found the car tucked away in a remote corner of the scrapyard. Where Bobby had put it, understanding how Sam felt about it. Sam had still been healing at that point, from Gordon and the swarm of demons that'd descended on his cabin, and Dean, bored, was exploring his childhood home. "Sorry."

"For what?" Sam wasn't sure which was more annoying: when Dean forgot that he had emotions and physical needs, or when he overcorrected and assumed that everything was either going to kill him or trigger a massive breakdown. Like he didn't have plenty of his own triggers.

For example, the exploring. Most of the time, it just put him in a bad mood. He didn't seem to be able to put into words what upset him more: the things that'd changed or the things that hadn't. He'd been ecstatic when he found the Impala, though. Started spending his days - and most of his nights, too - restoring it, because they needed a car. It took a while for Sam to tell him he was already familiar with it, though Dean figured out it'd used to belong to a hunter when he found the space for an arsenal in the trunk.

Sam tried to argue that something less flashy would be better, but Dean wouldn't budge. Especially once he knew it was technically Sam's car, and that it wasn't any lingering grief or bad memories that was making him reluctant; the years had deadened a lot of his negative associations with the car. Dean was pretty practical when it came to everything but cars. And music. And food and alcohol. It was kind of a relief he couldn't eat or drink.

If Sam was being honest, he missed living alone. Or living with roommates who were more like pets or prisoners than equal partners. He wouldn't go so far as to say that Dean was obnoxious, but...it was an adjustment. Especially because they were living in one small space after another and he'd realized a while back that he hadn't known Dean all that well beforehand.

All the vents in the car were aimed at the passenger side, since Dean always drove and never got hot or cold. They started blowing warm air on Sam as soon as the engine turned over, and he narrowed his eyes. It dried the sweat on him, at least, but it definitely wasn't pleasant. The temperature in the cab didn't start dropping in earnest until they'd nearly reached town, and by that point, of course, it was useless.

Back at the motel, Sam made a beeline through the humid dimness of their room to the bathroom, twisting only the right knob in the shower cubicle and leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor for now. There were no windows in here, so the darkness was almost complete, but he didn't bother turning on a light before stepping in under the icy spray. He was going to keep his eyes closed, anyway.

Over the sound of water hitting the preformed plastic, Sam heard Dean come in and drop the duffel bag on their bed. It was hard to tell, but he thought he unzipped it and took care of the gun Sam used. And the bullet-riddled target. Then he moved towards the bathroom.

Sam hadn't even thought to close the door, but Dean knocked on it anyway. "Can I come in?"

Before answering him, Sam tipped his had back and opened his mouth, gulping down a few big mouthfuls of the water falling from the showerhead. It tasted metallic and he was aware, as soon as he'd had his fill, that he'd drunk too much too fast and that his stomach would hurt soon, but it'd probably been worth it. He knew he had to have been dehydrated.

"Yeah, sure," Sam told Dean. He spat out half a mouthful of water he no longer wanted. "It's cold, though. I'll probably keep it that way for another minute or two." It still felt good, refreshing, and he wanted to bring up goosebumps before he touched the hot water knob.

"Doesn't make any real difference to me." Sam heard clothes hitting the floor, probably on top of the ones he'd piled there already. Then the cheap, mildewed curtain was pulled aside and Dean stepped into the tiny cubicle with him. "Were you that bad off? That you needed a cold shower?"

Sam shrugged. Dean would be able to see it if his eyes were black, and even if they weren't, he had to have felt it. With how close they were.

"I just got hot," he replied. "It's gonna happen. 'Specially here."

"You really don't like Nevada, do you?" Dean asked, voice teasing. Sam heard a hint of his Dakota accent, too. _Nev_ -ah- _da._ Kind of interesting how it'd somehow survived a millennium in Hell - Sam had a sudden urge to write about that.

"Ugh." Sam groaned and rested his head against the nearest wall with a loud _thud_. "It's just so hot. And flat. I didn't have any idea this place was so freaking boring - when I hear 'Nevada,' I think 'Vegas.'"

"You haven't spent a whole lotta time in this state, have you?" Dean observed. He had a hand resting on Sam's back, and it felt hot instead of his usual perfectly-median temperature, so Sam must be finally cooling down.

"I was mostly East Coast and Midwest back when I was active," Sam answered. "South, too. And then I stayed put in Colorado for seven years."

"Pretty sure it was Wyoming, actually."

"Whatever. It was in the Rockies." Sam's right shoulder was starting to hurt, unused to absorbing the recoil from a handgun.

"You're shivering," Dean observed. Realizing that he was right, Sam nudged the cold water down and turned the hot water on. What started coming out of the showerhead was probably only lukewarm, but it burned pleasantly against his near-numb skin. "Getting time to take off again, so we'll be outta here soon. We can head somewhere cooler this time - and less flat. California?"

"California'd be okay." Sam had applied to Stanford University when he was seventeen. Less than a month before losing his mobility and his dad in one fell swoop. He thought about bringing it up, but then decided against it.

"How d'you feel about how you did today?" Dean asked, changing the subject. Sam sighed.

"You know how I feel, don't you?"

"Yeah, but it's a lot easier to understand it when you explain it. You're kind of a mess, emotion-wise." Sam rolled his eyes, but humored Dean.

"Not great," he admitted. "I didn't realize I'd let myself get so rusty. You were right about me needing to work on my aim - I can hit the broad side of a barn, but that's about it."

"I think you're being too hard on yourself," Dean told him. "Again."

"I need practice," Sam replied, irritated. Dean had been the one to tell him that in the first place.

"Well, yeah - but you're gonna get it, and you're probably gonna be just fine with a gun after only a little while," Dean replied. He pulled away from Sam in the dark, and even though he couldn't go far without teleporting, it was eerie. At least until he started talking again. "'Cause you've already been taught, and you were good at it." Sam heard him grab something off the floor, or maybe out of the little alcove shelf sunk into one of the walls. "Plus, even though shooting's a really major part of hunting, it definitely ain't the only one."

"What're you doing?" Sam asked.

"Washing your hair." A cap popped, and a bottle squelched loudly as it was squeezed. "It's gross. It gets gross way too fast; you might wanna cut it."

Sam was shaking his head and making a negative noise in the back of his throat before Dean had even finished talking. He could practically see him shrug.

"Okay, fine. Whatever, Samson." Sam hadn't realized that Dean was reaching for him until he touched his scalp, and he flinched reflexively. Dean didn't comment as he started working shampoo through his hair. "Anyway - hunting. You're basically the best ever at research, which is a huge part. Then you're just fine with knives and axes and machetes, and you're good at sparring. Somebody teach you to use your height?" After Sam nodded, he continued. "Yeah, thought so. You can hit hard and lift basically whatever you're gonna need to, too, so it's a good thing you kept yourself strong." His hands suddenly stopped moving on Sam's head, and he was about to ask him what was wrong when he dropped them, gloved in suds, to his hips and adjusted him for what felt like the millionth time that day. "The top half of yourself, at least."

Sam gritted his teeth in frustration, not sure if he was mad at himself for doing it or Dean for pointing it out. He was just...fed up, after only a few months of having normal, intact muscles in both legs. A sudden pain in his gums forced him to relax his jaw before he broke one of his teeth off at the roots.

"Maybe I should start jogging again," he said, trying to sound casual and not that upset a second before he remembered that demons were empaths. It probably would've failed even if Dean hadn't been able to sense his feelings, though. "I used to almost every day when I was a teenager. Better hold off on it while we're still here, though; heat stroke's about the last thing I need right now."

Dean didn't respond. Not right away, at least. He just cleaned Sam - his hair, his body, then his face. They almost always showered together, even though Dean didn't need it nearly as much as Sam did, and Dean almost always washed him. Sam was still waffling back and forth on how he felt about that. On the one hand, it was soothing, but on the other, it was also disempowering. It made him feel like a little kid or a pet in a lot of ways. Not that either of those were a wholly inaccurate way to describe his relationship with Dean.

He never told him to back off and let him take care of himself, though. Because it was nice, and made him feel protected and loved, and helped him relax. All things he'd been starved for over the past few years. So of course this time was no exception.

"I'm sorry," Dean said eventually. He wasn't really scrubbing Sam anymore. Mostly just letting the water rinse him off. "It was my fault you had such a hard time up there. Like I said before, we should've brought water. And you were right - I really was being a dick."

"Drop it," Sam grunted. He'd been feeling better, standing under the drizzle of warm water with his eyes half-closed, but Dean's apology brought some of his annoyance back. "Either it'll click for you one day, that I'm human, or it won't. And it's not that big of a deal if it doesn't."

More silence from Dean. Sam assumed he'd hurt his feelings (he knew Dean had plenty of his own, even though he claimed that most were weird and stunted) and made a mental note to try and turn down the bitchiness. Especially when Dean spoke again, changing the subject.

"You hungry?" he asked.

"Not really. I'm okay for now." Sam had gotten a salad at the local restaurant they'd hit before heading out into the desert. He never had much of an appetite when it was hot, and he always felt weird eating in public with Dean. Who never ate.

"Let's take a nap, then," Dean suggested. "I know you haven't been sleeping well, so it wouldn't hurt you to catch some Zs." He touched him. Not washing or correcting, just touching. "Plus, it'll hopefully be cooler when you wake up. Maybe we can get more done."

"Okay." Sleep didn't sound so bad. Sam twisted both knobs until they shut off, then swept the curtain back and stepped out of the cubicle. He hadn't thought to put a towel or anything down - he'd been too focused on cooling off. So he dripped directly onto the tile.

The light flicked on. Dean. Sam squinted, reminded of the sunlight on top of the hill until his pupils adjusted. At least he could see to grab a towel and start drying himself off. Dean followed him, stepping around the piles of clothes on the floor. The bathroom, like most motel bathrooms, was only slightly larger than the average postage stamp, so there wasn't enough room for both of them. They stepped out into the larger room under a silent agreement. The evaporative cooler in the window vibrated and dripped, and the humidity it filled the room with made Sam's skin feel damp even after he'd finished toweling off.

"We're gonna have to do laundry again soon," he commented, nodding at the clothes on the floor as he stepped back into the bathroom to hang his towel up. Dean groaned loudly.

"I _hate_ laundry."

"I know you do." Sam gathered the clothes up. His own were still damp with sweat, which really was gross, Dean was right. He dropped the boots in front of the bed and started stuffing the rest into their laundry bag. It was made of heavy canvas, which was a good thing. It probably would've split at the seams by now, otherwise. "You're lucky you weren't at my cabin that long. You would've hated doing dishes and cleaning the bathroom and scrubbing the floor and changing the bed even more."

His tone was light, but there was a pang when he mentioned his cabin. Even though he was talking about chores he'd used to hate himself. He could tell Dean picked up on it by the way he didn't say anything. He could also tell that Dean had been hoping for sex when he pulled on a clean pair of boxers and glanced at him just in time to see him visibly wilt. He held back a snort.

"So it's your turn, right?" Dean asked as Sam grabbed a T-shirt. He preferred to sleep in older ones, made soft by hundreds of washes, but Dean hadn't seen fit to bring any of those back to him. They had limited space, after all, and needed to travel light. "To do the laundry."

"You know it's not." Sam collapsed onto the bed, his side of it, with a groan. His feet were pounding. He hadn't noticed it so much in the shower, but now the pain was back.

He heard Dean moving around and a zipper being pulled back, and could only hope he was getting clothes of his own on. Then he grabbed Sam's foot all of a sudden, and Sam managed not to flinch this time.

"Your feet're swollen," Dean noted. "Guess that could be 'cause of the heat." He dropped Sam's foot back onto the thin, scratchy duvet. "Or are you just still not used to wearing shoes?"

"Nope," Sam grunted into his pillow. He was lying on his stomach.

"It's your calluses. They're working against you." Dean climbed into the bed, settling himself right up against Sam. Sam was grateful. He was very aware that Dean didn't sleep, and it never failed to touch him, that he laid with him almost every time he needed to rest. And as often as he craved just a few damn inches of personal space these days, he slept better when Dean was in the bed with him. "They might've helped when you were running around barefoot like a filthy hippie..." He tugged on Sam's hair, still damp. "But not so much now that you're wearing boots all day."

"I hate boots," Sam said, smothering a yawn as he rolled over onto his side. "And motels, and duffel bags, and cars, and Nevada." The light in the bathroom flicked off, leaving them in relative darkness. Harsh desert sunlight still came in under the curtains and around the air conditioner. "And you hate laundry and bathing and stopping for food and sleep. No wonder we make such a great couple."

Dean was silent, not denying that Sam's human needs annoyed him. Sam wouldn't have believed him if he'd tried, so that was okay. He really did want to go to sleep, but he didn't close his eyes just yet, staring straight ahead instead. At the saguaro-shaped lamp, clearly designed by somebody who'd never seen a saguaro - which made sense, they didn't even grow here. A bottle of ibuprofen. His newly-bought cell phone, which he kept forgetting to take with him. The notebook he had yet to open, barely remembering the ritual inside and afraid that it was impossible. And, on top of that, the box that a new charging cable had shipped in, a couple years ago. Small, sturdy, sealed. Held closed with masking tape.

When Dean had brought it to him, along with his other stuff, he'd been confused. It'd just looked like dirt and sticks when he'd opened it. It took him a second to realize that there might be some dirt mixed in, but it was mostly ash and pieces of bone.

"Is this - ?" He'd glanced up at Dean, from where he'd been sitting on his old bed in Bobby's house.

"I knew you buried him by the back door," Dean replied. He'd still had an armload of weapons - rifles, hatchets, machetes - balanced on one hip. Sam's weapons were the only thing he'd retrieved all of. "I got all of him. I think. Wasn't too hard, and I figured you wouldn't wanna leave him there." He jerked slightly, then frowned, obviously feeling the huge wave of emotion that'd just welled up out of Sam. "Shit. Sorry. I really didn't mean to upset you. Want me to take it back?"

Sam shook his head wordlessly, setting the tiny box on his lap. He'd held it there for a long time, and Dean had left him alone. He'd wanted to clutch it to his chest and curl up in a fetal position around it, maybe under the bed or in the closet, but he stopped himself. He'd been giving in to his own massive weakness way too much lately, and he couldn't afford another breakdown.

Staring at the box now, Sam still felt guilty. Both for the fact that he'd let him die - be murdered - in the first place, and because he hadn't even thought about him when he fled his cabin. He definitely hadn't thought about bringing him along. It was downright shameful that he'd had to be reminded by a fucking _demon_ ; Vaughn deserved better than that.

"We really oughta get him an urn," the fucking demon commented softly. Sam sometimes wondered if he could read his mind in addition to his emotions. "Bet you could get some real nice pottery around here. Native American-ish."

"No," Sam replied, finally closing his eyes. "I don't have anywhere to put it."


	2. Chapter 2

_Subject: !IMPORTANT! PLEASE READ_

 ** _This message has been marked as urgent._**

 _Most of us know Sam Winchester or have read his books and website. He's been a huge help to our community for many years but what you may NOT know is that he has MURDERED Gordon Walker who was our friend and fellow hunter. Sam is currently on the run with a demon. The demon is a knight of hell who was captured by Gordon._

 _We don't know if Sam is possessed or hipnotized or has just been won over by the demons but theres no doubt hes DANGEROUS. So is his knight who we think he "loves" which would be a SIN even if it wasnt a demon. It is important we BAND TOGETHER to take out this threat._

 _There are pictures of Sam and the knights vessel attached underneath. If you see them KILL THEM but DO NOT do it alone. The demon is VERY strong and we should not underestemate Sam either he killed Gordon after all. There are consequences for killing a hunter and dont we have enough to deal with without worrying about these two!_

 _Thank you for doing your part to help us all and PLEASE FORWARD this email to AT LEAST two people to spread the word!_

 _\- E-mail recently circulated throughout the hunting community of the continental United States and Canada_

* * *

The steam rising out of the insulated paper cup smelled so good Sam had to work hard not to tear up. He took it from Dean when he offered it to him, mumbling out a thank-you. It was warm even through the cardboard sleeve that Dean had actually remembered to put on this time, which was more than welcome. The heat was finally working in the car (sort of), but his fingers were still stiff, courtesy of the frosty Idaho morning.

"I cannot _believe_ ," Dean declared, slipping back into the driver's seat once he'd handed the coffee off, "how many flavors of coffee there are these days. And at a gas station. Seriously."

"This gas station's nicer than most." The community - which they were just passing through, because Dean thought it was too big - must be fairly well off. Sam took an experimental sip of coffee, then a larger one once he'd reassured himself that it wasn't going to burn a hole through his tongue. "Speaking of flavors, what is this?"

"French vanilla." Dean must be able to tell how much Sam liked it, because he looked extremely pleased with himself as he pulled away from the pump he'd just used to fill up the car. "And then they had all this stuff you could put in it, syrups and creamer and stuff, so I put in a splash of half-and-half and a couple squirts of caramel."

"I thought I tasted caramel," Sam said, nodding as he took another sip. It was like drinking a sundae, but not in a bad way. He couldn't get over how incredibly good at flavor combinations Dean was for somebody who couldn't taste any of them. He worked with what he could, now that he no longer had Sam's kitchen at his disposal.

There was comfortable silence for a while, not even music coming out of the speakers. There were no classic rock stations around here, at least not ones that were up to Dean's high standards, and the box of tapes (salvaged from Bobby's basement; most of them had originally belonged to Dean, according to him) had been knocked onto the floor during a particularly awkward lovemaking session yesterday afternoon - the Impala had not been designed with two men their size having sex in mind. Dean had yet to pick them all up.

Sam stared out the window, nursing his coffee. He'd forgotten the name of the town, despite the fact that they'd driven past a sign proclaiming it less than twenty minutes ago, but it looked like he'd been right about it being well off. The houses were nice. New or restored. They were separate from the stores, too. He frowned slightly; he hadn't spent a lot of time in places like this, because monsters didn't tend to settle in wealthy communities very often. Not monsters that caused problems, at least. He wondered why that was.

"So now that you've had your go-juice," Dean began, breaking into Sam's thoughts, "you awake enough to talk?"

Sam brought the frown back out. "Well, yeah," he said. "But I was before, too." He was only twenty-five, and he'd worked very hard, while living at the cabin, to wean himself off the gallons of coffee he'd had to drink to function in high school. He was tired without it, sure, but it wasn't a necessity.

Then again, he had been drinking a lot more lately. Because, ironically, he hadn't been sleeping as well as he had back when his leg had given him grief all night.

"Good to know." Dean nodded, eyes staying on the road. They probably didn't need to, between his reflexes and the light traffic, but Sam found it comforting anyway. He also appreciated the fact that Dean was probably only doing it to make him feel better. "Any preferences as to where we go next?"

"You mean you're not gonna just choose for us this time?" Sam felt a yawn coming on and hid it with another swallow of coffee. "Lemme think. I can't say 'somewhere cooler,' since the weather changed." And since Dean had finally given in and headed north. "I guess...someplace with parks? Or trails, at least. I'm getting tired of running on the side of the road."

"You're getting good at that," Dean commented. "You're staying out longer. And I haven't asked, but you haven't said anything, either - you still feel sick during? Or afterwards?" Sam shook his head. "Well, that's good."

"Yeah. It's..." Sam searched for something to say that wouldn't come out sounding weird. It'd sucked starting out, just like he'd been expecting, with what he remembered from when he'd started running outside of the standard training his dad put him through. It hurt, especially the day after; Dean had helped him out of bed on that first morning, even though Sam would have been perfectly fine with just lying there and wallowing in his agony for the rest of the day. He got nauseous. Bent over and dry-heaved on the shoulder of a deserted road, once. And, of course, he looked awful in shorts. He'd hated his legs even before a huge chunk had been taken out of one. It was a huge relief when the first freeze came and he could wear long pants without risking heatstroke.

It got better, though. Everything got better, just so long as you did it every day - or at least every day you weren't spending ten hours in a car. So now he didn't throw up anymore and he didn't walk like he was ninety the morning after he went running. Other things had changed, too. He was getting to know his left leg again as more than a burden and a source of pain, to trust his weight to it even unconsciously. His feet were planted more firmly, more equally, on the ground. He thought he might be sleeping better. He was definitely more patient with Dean, and it was getting easier and easier to hold onto the tranquility he felt when running after he was finished.

Between this and what he was doing with Dean, the weapons training and the sparring and the quizzing him on basic lore (which he did _not_ need, having literally written the book on most of this stuff, but Dean seemed to get some kind of kick out of it, so...), he felt - stronger. More competent. Like, maybe, he could actually defend himself now, or hold his own on a hunt. _Maybe_.

At the very least, he wasn't anxious about Dean having failed to retrieve his cane from his cabin anymore.

"I'm doing better," Sam finally decided on.

"Yeah, you're not limping nearly as much anymore," Dean agreed. "Which is just fantastic. And your stance is way better when you're shooting. Not to mention your aim. Just like I told you." He offered Sam a smile, which Sam returned. He'd been right ,and it didn't hurt to admit that every once in a while. Plus, it really had felt good, the first time Dean had shown him a target with most of its bullet holes clustered in the center. "You're feeling better about that now, right? About guns?"

"I really am," Sam admitted. "I'm feeling better about _everything,_ really. Finally." He took another pull from the paper cup in his hands. It felt like it was about half-full. "It just takes a while to get back in the saddle."

"Nature of the beast," Dean agreed sagely. There was a beat of silence, then he said, "Once we get to this trail-place of yours, wherever that winds up being, we'll have to find the library."

"How come?" God, did he ever have mixed feelings about libraries.

"Well, 'cause you said the internet sucks at motels, and you can take your computer and get on it at a library, right?" When Sam nodded, he continued. "And I know they've got other computers at libraries. So, if you can teach me how to use one, I can help you out."

"With...what, exactly?" Sam asked, shaking his head and squinting at him. He really didn't use his laptop all that much. He was afraid to check his website or his e-mail, so mostly he just connected to motel wifi every couple days to take a look at the headlines coming out of the east. They were experiencing a crime wave over there, along with a lot of unseasonable storms. That was the civilian explanation, at least.

Sam was a little suspicious. Up until now, Dean hadn't shown much interest in his computer or the internet, which he'd always thought was strange for a guy who'd died in the eighties. Maybe he'd gotten all his freaking out over new technology out of his system back when he'd first crawled out of Hell. Maybe he'd never been told the World Wide Web was a third porn. That seemed more likely, Sam thought to himself as he raised his cup to his mouth again. He doubted Dean's handlers would have felt the need to teach a Knight of Hell how to Google smut. They hadn't even told him he could lay curses.

"Finding a hunt."

Sam's latest mouthful of coffee caught somewhere in the back of his throat, then hurt like hell going down when he forced himself to swallow again. A coughing fit hit him hard once his airway was clear, and he struggled not to spill what little was left in the paper cup as he sucked in air through a shrunken trachea, fighting the urge to double over. He would've set it down, but the car didn't have any cupholders and he knew it wouldn't be safe on the floor.

"I wouldn't've sprung it on you like that if I'd known you were gonna choke." Dean sounded concerned, and when Sam opened watering eyes, he realized he'd pulled over. They were idling right in front of someone's driveway. He'd probably been about to pound him on the back before realizing he wasn't actually dying, too, judging from the way he was just barely putting one hand back on the wheel. "Wrong pipe?"

"Yep," Sam managed croakily. It felt like most of what he'd just swallowed had wound up in his lungs, though he knew it hadn't actually.

"That sucks." Dean looked genuinely sympathetic. But Sam doubted he really remembered the pain of swallowing wrong while drinking, even if that'd been something he was tortured with in Hell - which was unlikely. "Thanks for not doing a spit-take all over the car, though."

"Right. Yeah. That was definitely first on my mind," Sam replied dryly. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as Dean guided the car back onto the road, then reluctantly sipped at the remainder of his coffee. Ironically, drinking more made him hurt less.

He waited for Dean to say something else about hunting as they continued on through the town, but he didn't. There was silence in the car as the houses started to thin out around them, and Sam eventually realized Dean was waiting for more of an answer from him than just sputtering. So he cleared his throat and said, "I didn't choke 'cause you mentioned finding a hunt."

"Okay."

"I really didn't. It was just a coincidence."

"I believe you."

Sam didn't think he did, but it wasn't worth arguing about. "I mean, sure, it surprised me." He looked out the window rather than at Dean. The houses just kept getting further and further apart, so they must be on their way out of town. "I hadn't even thought about it. I guess I've just been focused on the training and not what it's for." He wondered where, exactly, Dean was going, considering they hadn't picked out a real destination yet. "Do you...think I'm ready?"

"Do you?" Dean returned.

Sam drained the dregs of his coffee, thick and sweet in a way that almost made him gag with caramel syrup, instead of answering right away. He didn't know. He sure as hell didn't feel ready for a hunt, even an easy one like a ghost or a very amateur witch. It'd been only a few weeks since the top of the hill in Nevada, a few months since he'd gotten his leg back. And before that, more than a few years since his last, bloody, disastrous, tragic hunt. In his head, he was still a researcher and a writer, only comfortable with monsters when they were in captivity. His body still seemed to reflect that, too. He knew he'd kept fit, and he knew he'd managed to put on some muscle - especially in his legs, seeing as his calves were finally looking more or less equal. But not much. He was still slimmer than Dean, whose muscles were entirely for show.

He just didn't look like a hunter, in his opinion. Or think like one. And he definitely didn't feel like one.

"No," Sam told Dean eventually. It came out sounding more like an admission than a statement. "I don't. I think I need more time, to practice."

"How much?" Dean asked.

"Huh?" Sam hadn't been expecting the question.

"How much more time d'you think you need?" Dean clarified, looking at Sam.

"Uh..." Just how the hell was he supposed to quantify something like that? Dean was still looking at him, and he was doing that not-blinking thing that seemed to happen way too often. It was clear he wanted an answer, so Sam scrambled to come up with something. "A few more months?" he tried, tentatively.

"Why not make it a solid year?" Dean asked. Sam was surprised, mostly because he didn't hear any sarcasm in his voice. Which didn't mean he wasn't feeling it, but his green eyes - blazing like emeralds under glass in the early-morning sunlight - were unreadable.

"That'd be okay," Sam risked. Dean nodded.

"You'd definitely be stronger by then," he agreed. He went back to looking at the road, which was still comforting. "And maybe you'd have gotten past some of the things that are eating you up right now, too." Sam remained silent, picking at the dead skin on his lower lip with his teeth. "But probably not. Those're things you carry with you for your whole life. Longer, if you're real unlucky." He was almost smiling. Sam wondered if he was talking about himself. "You won't feel like you're ready a year from now, or two, or ten. No amount of training'll change that."

Sam swallowed. "The way things are going, the kind of stuff we can hear about what's been happening back east, I doubt I have ten years," he said, rather that admitting that Dean was right.

"There's a thought," Dean agreed. "They didn't tell dumb grunts like me anything about the big picture, of course, but I know the plan allows for a whole lotta carnage. There might be a deadline on closing the Gates, otherwise everything could be overrun. All those hunters who want your head on a stick tortured to death, or maybe kept around. Lilith and Alastair both like pets. That what you want?"

"No!" Sam snapped. He was too pissed about Dean even asking if he'd be okay with that to seize on the fact that he'd mentioned two Lords, both of whom he probably knew far too personally.

"Didn't think so." Dean sighed through his nose, and Sam, glaring at him, saw his features softening. "None of us get to choose, or wait 'til we're ready to jump in. It just gets shoved straight at us."

"Not everyone," Sam pointed out, feeling stubborn. "Sometimes somebody'll pick up on everything without any kind of tragedy. They aren't motivated by revenge or having to save somebody, so they can take all the time they need to get outfitted and - "

"Yeah, I don't count those," Dean interrupted. "You know the morons who see one shifter shedding its skin and decide to play van Helsing don't last long. They don't take any of it seriously 'til somebody winds up dead, and it's usually them."

"Fine," Sam said. "Okay. Nobody gets to choose. I know I didn't the first time; I was brought up in the life. I wasn't ever normal. Neither were you." Defiance seeped involuntarily into his voice as he demanded, "So why can't I choose this time? Now that I've got the luxury?"

"'Cause you don't," Dean replied. "Neither of us do. Hell, Sam, you think I'm looking forward to this? I don't wanna go through all the trouble of finding and working a case just to hurt something. There're easier ways to do that."

Sam struggled to keep his face blank. Dean was a demon; that was a perfectly normal and healthy desire for something like him to have. He should just be grateful he'd been doing such a good job of keeping it in check so far.

"And I can tell you that I'm not crazy about the idea of you being in that kinda danger," Dean went on. "No matter how tough I know you are, or how well I know I can protect you. But you've got your heart set on doing the Trials and saving the world, and I know I'm not gonna get you to change your mind. So I can at least keep you from charging into the first one totally fresh. Which means hunting." He glanced at him, just out of the corner of his eye. "And the longer you stay outta the game, the easier it's gonna get to talk yourself out of it. To give up. And while _I_ honestly don't give a shit about anything that isn't you or me - pretty sure we've established that - _you_ do. You even care about people who think you belong in Hell, and if you don't do everything you can to save them and everybody else, you're gonna wind up hating yourself." His hands moved on the steering wheel, loosening and slipping down towards the bottom. "And I don't want that for you."

Sam looked at him, at the side of his face, and swallowed for the second time before looking away and letting his hair fall over his face. It hurt again, like when he'd nearly choked on the coffee earlier, but the pain was different. He was swallowing past a lump this time.

He peered out from under the dark fringes of his hair, at the empty paper cup that was still in his hand, the ridge of the bottom resting on his thigh. He thought about crushing it, but doing that seemed stupid and ineffective. Plus, he just wasn't all that angry anymore. Not even at Dean, for being so frequently and infuriatingly right about him and what would happen.

What he felt, mostly, was fear. It was frustrating because of its sheer familiarity, and it would've been humiliating to force it out through his tight throat. So, instead, he just stayed quiet and focused on it. He was afraid of getting hurt. Of ruining the gift Dean had given him before he'd even really gotten used to it again. Of letting someone innocent die. Of making the wrong call. Of screwing up. Of losing Dean, stupidly enough, even though he could probably count the ways to kill a Knight on one hand. Of proving everyone who hated him right, when they talked about how weak he was, how cowardly and useless, how much of a traitor. He'd never actually had anybody say that last one to his face, but he was sure they were saying it by now.

Maybe there was a little bit of self-pity mixed in there with the fear. And already some self-loathing, even though Dean had predicted that he wouldn't hate himself unless he didn't start hunting sometime soon.

"Sam." Dean's voice was so soft that he could barely hear it over the audible growl of the engine. He'd felt it; of course he had. That'd been Sam's intention. "I can promise - _promise_ \- that this won't be anything like your last hunt. Or mine." He reached for Sam, who closed his eyes when Dean's callused hand closed over his own and squeezed gently. "There'll be no wendigos, no hellhounds, no isolated forests. We'll choose an easy one, we'll do our research, and then we'll work together and take it slow. Nothing'll go wrong."

"You _can't_ promise that nothing'll go wrong," Sam protested quietly, shaking his head and keeping his eyes closed.

"Guess not," Dean admitted. "But I can promise I'll do my best to keep it from happening."

Sam opened his eyes now, turning his head in order to look out the window. They were still moving, and they'd left the town behind. There were no houses anymore; just flat landscape. The plains were filled with shards and furrows of shiny black rock, broken up by scrub brush and stunted little trees. He hadn't had any idea there were lava fields in Idaho, but he guessed it made sense. Yellowstone wasn't too far away, and it was just one big volcano.

"And I know that you're gonna do your best," Dean continued. Sam finally looked at him again, a laugh that really didn't match his current mood but that he couldn't hold back anyway bubbling out of him.

"You've got a lot of faith in me," he observed.

"You're the only thing I've got faith in," Dean replied. His voice had the flat ring of truth as he turned in order to make eye contact with Sam. Sam swallowed, holding it just long enough for it to start getting a little uncomfortable, at which point Dean asked, "We're having a chick-flick moment, aren't we?"

"Little bit," Sam agreed.

"Right." Eyes back on the road, Dean blinked, and they went black in the light that was now pouring in through the windshield. Sam just flipped his visor down and made a mental note to remind Dean to change them back if they ran into any traffic. Most people probably wouldn't notice, but they didn't need to risk causing an accident. "Let's try not to do that too much."

Sam snorted.

"Anyway," Dean said, forcefully, "I'm not gonna decide for you. Especially since you seemed so pissy about me always choosing where we go. This has gotta be your choice, 'cause you're gonna wind up resenting me no matter what I try and make you do."

Sam rested an elbow on the car door and cradled the side of his face in his hand. Was it comforting, creepy, or offensive how well Dean knew him, or at least thought he knew him? He needed more time to figure that out. And it probably didn't matter right now.

"Take as much time as you need to decide." The radio suddenly switched on, staticky music and voices pouring out, volume and content jumping around as the knobs twirled. Even though Dean still had both hands on the wheel. Sam narrowed his eyes at it where it was set into the dash; he was still getting used to the whole "telekinesis" thing. The whole "demonic powers" thing in general, really. "Make sure you're happy with it."

Sam sighed, straightening up and shifting his position. The empty coffee cup, which he was tired of holding, went between his knees. He'd toss it the next time he had Dean pull over at a rest stop to allow him a bathroom break. It'd be easier to just drop it on the floor, but Dean would throw a fit. Like Sam could tell he wanted to do when the radio got steadily fuzzier, all the stations blurring together as they moved out of range and the reception weakened, and he finally just shut it off with a grunt of frustration.

"Happy," Sam repeated softly.

Well, to be _happy_ , he'd have to be not doing...this. Hunting, Trials, hiding both from demons and from people he'd at least considered allies, if not friends, several months ago. And he couldn't just choose to turn his back on it all, because he was wired with an overwhelming sense of duty and he knew he'd drive himself crazy with guilt if he hunkered down somewhere with Dean and played house. So he'd have to live in a world where closing the Gates of Hell wasn't a necessity, which would mean demons and monsters didn't exist, which was just the most stereotypical hunter wish ever. Not to mention that it was a lot to ask for, even if he hadn't suspected that living in that kind of world meant he wouldn't have ended up with Dean.

With things as they were, and not likely to change anytime soon, the best he could hope for was not to feel awful about himself. That meant completing the Trials as fast as possible, and he did agree with Dean: he couldn't go green into the first one. Hellhounds were nasty; he needed to get his sea legs back before he faced any.

"I want to hunt," Sam said finally. "Now. We can start looking as soon as we get to the next town."

Dean looked at him, and Sam couldn't tell if he was surprised by his decision or not. "Sure?"

"Yeah." Sam couldn't help thinking that it should've felt more momentous, saying that. After all, he was pretty much sealing his fate. He was returning to hunting after years on the bench, when he'd been at peace with that being something that would never happen. But it didn't feel like much at all.

Maybe that'd change when he actually laced up his boots and grabbed a gun for something other than target practice; maybe it'd be better if it didn't.

"Better start looking for a town with parks and trails and a library, then," Dean replied. "A small one. That's everything you wanted, right?"

"Yeah - you don't know of any places like that?" Sam asked.

"Not like I've got Idaho memorized," Dean pointed out, glancing slightly at him and arching a brow. His eyes were still black. "'Specially not anymore."

Sam huffed, then twisted in his seat, going up on his knees in order to lean over the back. He dug through the road maps, some loose and some bound in books, in a box on the floor of the back seat. Both he and Dean had cell phones, but they were way too cheap to have any kind of internet capability. And he couldn't use his laptop in the car, though Dean had asked him to before; explaining why he couldn't just get online anywhere had been a pain in the ass, maybe because he didn't understand it all that well himself, either. So that just left old-fashioned, impossible-to-refold maps.

It was nostalgic and painful at the same time, sitting in the passenger seat and reading off a road map. He'd started acting as his father's navigator as soon as he'd learned how to read, which had somehow also qualified him to sit in the front seat. Sam grabbed a map of Idaho as a whole and a booklet that went into more detail on some of its cities with the hand that didn't have an empty cup in it, then turned again and dropped back onto the leather, one leg folded comfortably beneath him.

He hadn't missed how Dean didn't react much to his decision to go ahead and start looking for a hunt right now, just like he hadn't felt much when he'd made that decision. Either it hadn't surprised him or he just didn't want to make a big deal out of it. That did seem like something he'd do, try and keep things as normal as possible while Sam made the transition back into a lifestyle he'd been forced out of while he was still a teenager, and Sam was grateful even if Dean wasn't doing it consciously. Leaving hunting had been so huge and awful and traumatic for him that it just felt good for the return to be quiet. For only him and Dean to know about it and neither of them to care very much. He could do his part, too.

Sam spread the maps out on his thighs, trying not to take up too much of Dean's driving space as they spilled over onto his side of the car, and spent some time studying the little dots along the red and black lines of the roads that indicated small towns. The sun rose a few degrees in the sky, so they weren't driving into it anymore. Sam just barely heard Dean's eyes switch back to human colors over the admittedly-soothing purr of the engine, and even then only because he'd been straining his ears to try and catch it.

He opened the booklet after a few minutes. With the sun coming up, he was finally starting to feel uncomfortably warm, so he shrugged out of his jacket. It was a Carhartt - bulky and, because it was brand-new, stiff. It took some clever acrobatics, considering everything else he was juggling, and he was pretty sure Dean intervened telekinetically at some point to help keep him from dumping everything onto the floor. At any rate, he got settled again and began flipping through the booklet, glancing back and forth between it and the bigger map.

"Okay," he announced eventually. "I think I've found a place, but it's back in the other direction..."

* * *

"Got your cell phone?"

"Uh huh."

"Wallet?"

"Yep."

"Water?"

"I'm not going far. I'll rehydrate when I get back to the room."

"You sure?" He wasn't even looking at him, but Sam could tell that Dean was frowning. "You need a crazy amount of water to keep all your squishy parts...y'know, squishy."

"I'm aware. But if I drink too much before or while I'm running, everything'll get too squishy."

"You'll puke?"

"I'll puke."

"I am _so_ glad I haven't seen you do that yet."

"Yeah. Me, too."

Sam tugged the loops of his running shoes' laces, making sure they were tight, then straightened up and pushed himself off the bed. The shoes had rubbed horrible blisters onto his feet the first few times he'd worn them, refusing to yield, but now they were broken in. They were more comfortable than his boots. Still not as comfortable as wearing nothing at all, but he couldn't run unpaved roads in bare feet.

"All right," he announced. "I think I'm ready to go." He gave Dean, sitting at their room's small table with his arms folded over his chest, a little wave. "See you later. Have fun at the library."

Dean snorted. "Yeah. Right." He twisted at the waist to reach for Sam's laptop, already strapped into its padded case. "Pretty sure that old bag at the front desk is gonna exorcise me if I try and use the printer again. Told me yesterday I'm lucky she isn't making me pay for all the paper I've used so far."

"Okay, so, one, I don't think she'll be there today. And two, just...don't use the printer, then." Privately, Sam had been wondering why Dean kept on handing him paper copies of online articles. He'd shied away from all of them so far, recognizing the weird stuff they talked about as the work of something he either wasn't comfortable hunting yet or that wasn't even their kind of monster, so they just went straight into the nearest recycling bin. "You're using my laptop, so keep the articles you find open in another tab or bookmark them or something. Then show me when I get there."

"Yeah, okay." Dean paused. "I don't remember how to do either of those things."

Sam bit back a sigh of irritation, even though doing that was basically useless: Dean would be able to feel that he was annoyed with him. (Although his expression didn't change.) They'd been here, in the town Sam had chosen, for a couple of days. It was called Bellevue, and a large portion of the first of those days had been taken up by a crash course in computers for Dean. Both Sam's laptop and the dinosaurs at the library, because they were definitely different. He'd never taught somebody how to use a computer before, especially someone who had something like less than zero experience with them, and it'd forced him to realize that he was kind of an awful teacher. In this area, at least. He was impatient, he couldn't answer a lot of Dean's questions, and a lot of the stuff Dean found most confusing, Sam just took for granted. Like file names and hyperlinks and search terms. So it really wasn't Dean's fault that he wasn't computer-literate yet.

"Okay," Sam said patiently, crossing the room. He grabbed the other chair at the table and dragged it over next to Dean's, dropping into it as he unzipped the laptop case. He pulled the Velcro straps free and lifted the computer out, flipping the screen up and setting it on the table. "I'll give you a refresher real quick."

"You don't have to," Dean said quickly. "I'm sure I can figure it out when I get there. You should go before it starts warming up outside."

"It's fine. It's not a big deal," Sam replied, tracing swirls on the track pad with his index finger to wake the computer up. He didn't say it, but he didn't want Dean messing around aimlessly on his laptop. He might accidentally download a virus or a toolbar or something. "This won't take too long."

He logged into the account he'd set up for Dean. The desktop, with its generic background image, was pretty bare. He hadn't set many icons out for him, wanting to keep things as simple as possible. Dean hadn't seemed to mind. Sam double-clicked on Chrome, newly installed as of about eight months ago, and then made a conscious effort to keep himself from impatiently tapping his fingers on the tabletop. The wifi at this motel _sucked_. It was even worse than dialup, which Sam had suffered through for years, having been a teenager in the late nineties. That was the main reason they were spending so much time at the library.

The Google homepage finally came up, much to Sam's relief. "So, to open a new tab, you hit this little square over here. The one with the plus sign on it." He demonstrated. "To open something in a new tab, right-click on the link, then hit 'open in new tab' when the menu comes up. Or hold the 'control' button - on the keyboard, right here - " He pointed. " - before you click. That works, too." He moved his cursor. "To bookmark something ,go ahead and hit this star up here while you're on the page. That'll put it in this list here, so you'll be able to go back and find it anytime you want. Even if you close the tab." He glanced at Dean, who was staring intently at the screen. "Got it?"

"...yyyes."

"If you don't understand, just call me. I might be able to help over the phone." Probably not; he was never going to land a job in tech support. He also wasn't sure whether or not he'd have cell service. "Otherwise, just wait. I'll be at the library in an hour or two."

"Right." Dean softly closed the laptop, then put it back in the case and started strapping it in again. He was gentler with it than Sam was. "Guess I'll see you then. Have a good run."

"Thanks," Sam told him, and pushed himself up out of the chair. He headed for the door, opened it, and stepped out.

It was cold out here. Below freezing, probably, seeing as everything was covered in a thick layer of fluffy-looking white frost. The sun had yet to clear the horizon, but its light was slowly changing the sky from a deep violet to pink. Sam had to close his eyes for a second to dam up the tears that the harsh air had triggered, and the first weak rays of dawn were stamped in negative on the undersides of his lids. He was glad he'd opted to pull a hoodie on over his usual T-shirt.

It was fall, though, not winter. The temperature was already rising, so he didn't have to worry about getting frostbite or burning his lungs. But for now it was still chilly, so he flipped his hood up, over his ears and the high ponytail he'd pulled most of his hair into, and shoved his hands into his front pocket.

Bellevue was rural. There weren't that many parks - not ones meant for running in, at least - but there were plenty of trails. Or maybe poorly-maintained back roads Sam used as trails, but whatever. It got him away from cars and gave him somewhere to run. That was where he was heading now. It wasn't at all far from where he and Dean were staying.

He stopped where asphalt transitioned to gravel, and then dirt. A faded sign full of pellet gun holes stated that motorized vehicles were strictly prohibited, and a much newer one that'd been screwed to the pole directly underneath it warned of rough road ahead. Sam kept his eyes on them so his head would stay steady as he shifted into a deep lunge, wincing at the burn in his thighs and hamstrings. He held it for about a minute, then switched legs. He went through a few more stretches once he was finished with that. He'd had his share of cramps and pulled muscles when he was younger, until one of the soccer coaches he'd had in middle school had finally hammered home the connection between preparing before he ran and not wanting to die afterwards.

Sam could've stretched back at the motel. There was plenty of room, and it was a lot warmer inside, but he knew he looked stupid doing this. Dean probably wouldn't make fun of him, but Sam didn't want to force him to struggle with the powerful temptation.

Once he was feeling reasonably limber, his body warm, loose, and ready to move under his sweats, he took off. The air burned slightly in his airways, and his breath puffed out white in front of him, but it got harder and harder to see as the day got steadily warmer. His heartbeat, his breathing, and the rasp and crunch of his soles on the uneven ground was loud in his ears. Maybe it would've been nice to listen to music. But he never had before, and he didn't have anything he could use for it. Just like his twenty-dollar pay-as-you-go cellphone couldn't go on the internet, it couldn't play music, and he wasn't about to dig into his very meager funds for an iPod. Maybe it was for the best, seeing as how he wasn't sure headphones or earbuds would even stay put. After all, it wasn't like Sam jogged. He _ran_.

He was built for distance running. His math teacher at the last high school he'd attended, who'd doubled as the track coach, had told him that, and it still rang true. Long-legged and leanly muscled, he felt awkward and gangly for the first couple minutes or so. But once he found his rhythm and his heart rate evened out, it felt like he could keep going forever.

He'd just hit that point in this morning's run. Trees blurred by on either side of him, the frost on their colorful leaves glittering as the rising sun burned it off. His stride was smooth. It felt less like his feet were hitting the ground and more like the ground was pushing them up. He might as well have been flying.

Everything was beautiful, and everything was loud and quiet at the same time. And then, of course, there was the best part: when his body was moving this fast, almost every muscle group working, his mind more or less ground to a halt. There was no fear, no anxiety, no guilt. He didn't stress about his leg. It became just another part of his body, and worked exactly as it was supposed to. He never limped when he was running.

When Sam first started doing this again, Dean showed no interest in going with him. He still didn't. It was a relief - he wanted to do almost everything else with Sam, so he'd been dreading telling him he'd rather not have him along. Not to mention unsure how, exactly, he was going to do that. Maybe the idea of running just didn't appeal to Dean, seeing as how he could literally run forever with no problem. Maybe he could sense that Sam needed some time alone, though he didn't think his empathy worked like that. The reason didn't really matter. He'd probably be talking if he were here, since exertion didn't affect his breathing. Sam loved him, he'd told him that plenty of times, but that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy the peace that came when he was running by himself.

It could only last for so long, though. He got to revel in the feeling of perfect calm for a good while, then other things started creeping in. The fatigue in his legs, the aching in his chest, the sweat between his skin and his clothes. He was starting to get really thirsty, too, though he stood by his decision not to bring any water along.

Sam kept going for a while, until all the discomforts stopped being kind of pleasant and just got annoying. When that happened, he slowed to a jog, then a trot, then a walk. He was breathing hard and he was tired, but not so much that he had to sit down or bend over with his hands on his knees. Like he'd told Dean in the car, he didn't get sick anymore, either (unless he drank too much water), and he was very proud of that. Probably too proud, but he hadn't had a lot of wins lately, so he was gonna cut himself a break on this one.

The path he'd followed was a loop, taking him out away from town and then bringing him back, as long as he stayed on it and didn't follow any of the smaller ones that branched off it and led deeper into the country. He might've turned onto one of those and started running again once he'd recovered, but he knew both that he shouldn't push himself too hard and that Dean was waiting for him. So he walked the remaining length of the trail, pulling his phone out of the pocket of his hoodie as he went as soon as his breathing had gotten a little slower. It'd been just under an hour, Sam saw when he checked it, and he didn't have any missed calls from Dean, either. That was encouraging. Hopefully it meant that he hadn't run into any problems with the laptop and not that he'd smashed it in a fit of frustration.

Sam put his phone away as he approached Bellevue. He was feeling better now, and he was once again tempted to start running again. He'd just grab a quick shower back at the motel and then head to the library, though. He'd probably had enough of a workout for today. The run, and the cold air, had definitely woken him up.

That alertness would fade once he was in the hot, stuffy little library, though. Reading through articles from all over the country - or the western section, at least - that were more or less identical. It might be a good idea to have some caffeine in his system. The trail he was on came out in the parking lot of a gas station; he was almost to it. He could buy a coffee there. Maybe put some -

A loud burst of laughter suddenly derailed Sam's thoughts. He blinked, realizing he was closer to the parking lot than he'd realized. He could see cars through the trees that separated him from it, arranged in a haphazard circle in blatant violation of the yellow-painted spaces. There were people, too, sitting on the hoods or standing in the middle of the circle. Of course he couldn't make out their faces, but he could see a lot of flannel and denim, and from their voices - which were coming to him loud and clear - he could tell they were all men.

Lumber guys, maybe. Or oil field workers. Was there even any oil around here? Probably. It seemed like the west was covered in wells and rigs.

"Hoo, boy," one of them said as the laughter wound down, and an involuntary image of him wiping an exaggerated tear from the corner of his eye popped into Sam's mind. "That was a good one...seriously, though." A pause. "Would any you've guessed he swung that way?"

"Well, I never met him in person." Somebody else spoke up. "Never saw a reason to. But, I mean, I heard he was kinda quiet, real into books, like to keep that place of his clean. And, far as I know, never had any girls up there, neither, 'sides that ginger dyke. All that points to this sorta thing, don't it? More or less?"

There was a low murmur of agreement, and Sam pressed his lips into a thin line. It was pretty obvious what they were discussing. It also wasn't any of his business, though, and it wasn't like homophobia was new or shocking to him. He did feel bad for their friend, or whatever he was to them. Hopefully neither he nor the "ginger dyke" knew they were being talked about behind their backs. Or maybe it'd be better if they did.

"Yeah, only girl up there was him - heard all about how long he kept his hair."

Despite himself, Sam felt heat rising in cheeks that the morning air had numbed, and flipped his hood up to cover his own hair. Just a precaution.

"That ain't strictly true," the first speaker pointed out. "He had lots of girls up there. Sort-of girls."

"Yeah, I always figured he was using those for stress relief," a third man commented. "I mean, I would've. If I were in his position."

"I used to thank Jesus every day I wasn't." And that was a fourth one. Sam would be able to see them all soon. He was on a bend in the path now that would lead him out from behind the trees. "I mean, only one leg. God _damn_."

Phantom pain ticked mechanically up Sam's left calf, from his heel to the back of his knee.

"He ain't _missing_ a leg," one of them corrected. "He just can't use it."

"Last I saw him, he just had a bad limp."

"Oh, yeah. That was it."

Sam stumbled, having to slap a hand against a tree in order to keep himself from twisting an ankle. He swallowed, and the sides of his throat - suddenly dry as sandpaper - rasped painfully against each other.

They couldn't be talking about him. It was impossible. It had to be a coincidence. His palm stung as he forced himself to keep walking forward, but he didn't see any blood or scrapes when he glanced down at it.

He'd just stepped out into the parking lot when one of the men, maybe the second one he'd heard talk, commented, "Wonder if that's what made the demon take such a shine to him in the first place. In my experience, they like that kinda thing. Y'know, the wounded, cripples. Stuff that's...wrong."

It felt like someone had broken a water balloon of near-freezing water over Sam's scalp, allowing it to wash down over his whole body. There was a hollow, weightless clenching in his stomach and at his tailbone. In the small of his back, his kidneys hurt, almost like he'd been kicked in them. He blurrily wondered if so much adrenaline was being dumped into his bloodstream that the glands were cramping.

 _Oh, god._

So many occupations wore denim and flannel. Lumberjack. Roughneck. And hunter, which he hadn't even considered. Hadn't allowed himself to.

"Way I heard it, _he_ took a shine to _it_." Their conversation was still going. "Had to've been what happened. Thing couldn't've been trussed up tighter if it'd been in a straitjacket, when Gordon dropped it off."

Sam didn't realize he'd stopped breathing until he began to feel dizzy, and had to manually suck in air. At least he'd managed to keep walking, and his pace had stayed nearly normal.

"Gordon! Shit. What a waste."

"Yeah. Tell me about it. Gotta find the backstabbing little fruit and his black-eyed bitch and gut 'em both before anybody else goes his way. Rest in peace."

There was a faint trickling noise, and Sam imagined half a finger or so of whiskey being poured out onto the asphalt. Then a "Hey."

It was guarded, and louder than the rest of their conversation had been, but Sam barely picked up on that. He was just focused on getting out of here without drawing attention to himself, in the only direction left to him. He couldn't dart back onto the trail. They'd notice.

"Hey. Gray hoodie."

Sam came to a stop, both stiff and faintly trembling all at once, because he knew that that that was him, as much as he didn't want it to be. Boots scuffed over the asphalt towards him, and he closed his eyes. He couldn't turn to face them. At least one of them had seen him before; they'd recognize him. He couldn't run, because they might shoot him. He couldn't fight. He never carried any kind of weapon with him when he ran - it'd never occurred to him, and Dean had never suggested it, either. At six-four, he was immune to most of the dangers that befell lone joggers.

He remembered someone telling him, once, that angels could hear your prayers, as long as you knew their name. He wondered if it'd summon Dean if he screamed curses at him inside his head.

"Whatcha up to, Ike?" someone in the pack of hunters called. The boots stopped.

"Winchester's a tall son of a bitch, ain't he?" replied the one who'd peeled off from the herd. "And I thought I saw long hair."

A snort. "You dumbass. That's not him - you see a limp?" Sam reflexively tensed the muscles of his left leg. "Leave that kid alone and get back over here. I gotta clear out soon and we still haven't heard just what it is you've been up to."

There was a huff, a sound of annoyance meant to cover up the embarrassment Ike was probably feeling. To Sam, he muttered, "Sorry - thought you were somebody I knew." He heard him turn around and prepared to take a step himself, but then Ike tossed a parting shot over his shoulder: "And cut your goddamn hair, son. For Chrissakes."

He returned to the other hunters. Sam left the parking lot on legs he could barely feel, sure his face (which was also numb, again, and this time not from the nip that remained in the air) was blank with shock. The thought of coffee entered his mind again as another gout of laughter erupted from behind him, but he didn't even glance at the small building beyond the pumps he was now passing. He didn't want to, couldn't, stay here any longer than he absolutely had to.

He made it out of the parking lot and onto the narrow road. Walking on the shoulder, gravel made soft by a layer of fallen leaves, he turned a corner and put another thick stand of trees between himself and the hunters. Then he started running again. Not at the steady lope he'd been moving at earlier - this was a flat-out sprint. He made it ten steps before his leg failed him.

The muscles locked up and refused to listen to him, just like they'd used to back when large pieces of them had been missing and they'd been webbed with scar tissue. They spasmed, all the strength leaching out of them and everything they were connected to. So when Sam's full weight came down on it, because that was just how running worked, it folded like a soggy toothpick. His ankle rolled and his knee tried to bend in a direction he was pretty sure it wasn't supposed to, and he went down hard. His hands flew out, but it didn't do him a lot of good. The leaves and gravel were slick with melted frost, so his hands just skidded out from under him, and tore the hell out of his palms in the process. Then his face smacked into the ground. Shortly followed by the rest of him. There was a loud _crack_ ; he knew being able to hear something breaking wasn't good.

Sam's teeth sank into his tongue and the hot taste of copper flooded his mouth, but not because he'd fallen. Biting his tongue kept him from crying out. He couldn't make any noise that the hunters back in the parking lot might hear, because of course they'd come, and then they'd see his face, and they'd realize who he was, and then...he really didn't want to think about it too hard, because he was sure his imagination could provide him with dozens of worst-case scenarios about what they might do to him. He could feel gravel embedded in his chin and cheekbone, and the entire left side of his face was hot and tight, already swelling. If he wasn't bleeding yet, he would be soon, but he didn't think any of it was enough to make him totally unrecognizable. Not to people who'd met him in person before.

He pushed himself up with a low groan. He wasn't hurting too bad yet; the adrenaline that walking past the hunters had dumped into his system was coming in handy now. His arms shook as he dragged himself over to the trees and bushes lining the road and sat down, breathing hard and half-hiding himself while he assessed the damage. He knew he didn't blend in very well; his hoodie was gray, his pants were navy blue, and his running shoes were predominantly white, all of which clashed with the yellow, red, and brown of the leaves and twigs. But the instinct to take shelter was too strong to ignore.

Sam looked down at his hands very first, grimacing. The heels had taken the brunt of his impact. They were raw, the first few layers of skin having been peeled off; what remained was hot, wet, and tender, a dark pink stippled with red dots of blood. It was already purpling up with deep bruises in some places, and was brown and black with dirt in others. Gravel, mostly tiny pieces, was embedded in the meat. The idea of digging them out made his stomach turn over.

His face throbbed. The pain went deep into his skull, taking root as a headache. He could've run his fingertips - mostly undamaged - over it and felt what was wrong, but he didn't want to make it worst, and he wasn't sure what good knowing would do him, anyway.

His ribs and his sternum ached from where his chest had hit the ground, but nothing was broken. He knew what that felt like, and this wasn't it. There was a ticklish kind of pain in his lungs, and he couldn't suck in too deep a breath without feeling the urge to cough, but that was just from having the wind knocked out of him.

There was a sharp pain in both his kneecaps (at least those hadn't gotten torn up, courtesy of his pants). His hips kinda hurt, and weirdly enough, his balls did a little, too, even though he was pretty sure those hadn't hit the ground. And there were a hundred other different aches and pains and scrapes and bruises scattered all over his entire body - and he still had no idea what that crack had been - but the worst hurt by far was his left leg.

His knee had a sick, pinching pain inside it, and his ankle was sore, but what was between them made both pale in comparison. It felt like someone had taken a giant melon baller and scraped off all the flesh between the back of his knee and his Achilles tendon, the serrated edge grating against the bone the whole way down. It felt like someone had held the dull, rusty blades of an outdated lawnmower to his calf. It felt like...it felt like...

It felt like it had right after the wendigo had first swiped its claws across it.

Sam licked his lips, tasting blood and grit and earth. He did have to feel this one out, make sure there was nothing actually wrong. Lowering a hand to his left calf, he accidentally triggered another, unwelcome spurt of adrenaline when he felt an empty pant leg hanging off his shin where rounded muscle should have been. He felt dizzy, his system overwhelmed by the hormone, and as he swayed slightly where he was sitting, he forced himself to take a few breaths as deep as he could manage before he could pass out or throw up. His calf hadn't just fallen off, that was ridiculous. And sure enough, when he grabbed at his leg - and hissed at the fresh pain the touch of his fingers sent through him - it was still whole. Just cramping so hard that it'd shrunk down a third or fourth of its normal size. His foot was pulled down, into something almost like some sort of ballet position, and he couldn't fully straighten his knee.

His eyes stung suddenly. Not from the pain, even though it was excruciating (and familiar). He swiped the back of one bloody, dirty hand across his eyes like a five-year-old, trying to push the memories that'd just flooded involuntarily into his mind back down where they belonged. Memories of mornings at the cabin after overdoing it the previous day, of waking up from nightmares that somehow set off his leg, of trying to do too much or move too fast and being instantly punished for it.

"Dammit," Sam whispered. "Dammit, dammit, dammit..." This hadn't been supposed to happen ever again, but it wasn't worth crying about. He couldn't afford to show any weakness, either. He was still too close to the hunters. One of them could drive by at any second. He had to get to Dean, and then they had to leave as fast as they could, because neither of them were safe here.

Panting, he touched his leg again, letting his eyes fall closed. There was no way he could walk on this. Cramps this awful could last for upwards of an hour back when he'd still been living at the cabin, and usually nothing - not a hot shower, not rubbing, not medication - could get it to release. Now that the muscles were whole and healthy, it might last even longer. Never mind that the fact the muscles were whole and healthy should've meant that this wasn't even a problem.

He needed to call Dean to come and get him. Sam didn't want him anywhere near the hunters, who probably wouldn't recognize him but still might be able to somehow tell what he was, but he didn't have any choice. He fumbled into the pocket of his hoodie with his left hand, which was already starting to stiffen up. When he touched his phone, he groaned loudly. _Just my_ fucking _luck_.

He pulled his cell phone, all the separate pieces of it, at least, out of his pocket, letting it fall to the ground next to him so he could open his eyes and stare down at it. That was what that loud cracking sound had been. He almost would've rather had it be a bone.

Sam sucked in a breath. To hunt - to do the Trials and save those assholes back in the parking lot whether they wanted him to or not - he could not depend on Dean all the time. Tempting as it might be. He had to be prepared to solve his own problems, and he needed to have control over his body.

He couldn't sit here for much longer, either. The cold dampness of the leaves and mud he was sitting on was seeping up through his pants and into his boxers; his ass was going numb.

So he scooped what was left of his cell phone back up into his pocket, because he couldn't just leave it where it was. Hitting the ground had knocked the hood off his head, so he went ahead and pulled it back up, because it made him feel better. Then he reached up, grabbed the nearest branch that seemed sturdy enough to hold his weight, and hauled himself upright with a gasp of pain.

He wobbled, still unsteady with adrenaline. His right leg wasn't used to doing most of the work anymore, either. He squeezed the branch he was holding, letting the rough bark dig into his scrapes. The pain gave him clarity and let him focus on something besides his leg. He'd been holding it up in the air, but now he let the toe of his shoe rest against the soft ground, which sent an agonizing quiver through his hardened muscles. Then he forced his sole entirely flat. Flexing like that undid whatever was holding his calf tight, and everything spontaneously released.

Sam gasped, and only the fact that his hand was still on the branch kept him from collapsing again. He'd forgotten how good a sudden absence of pain could feel. Better than an orgasm, in some ways.

He pushed off the tree and started walking. His heart was still galloping in his chest, but he'd wasted enough time already, and he was hurting more by the second. He shoved his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and hunched his shoulders, focusing on staying off the ground. It was hard because of how off-balance he was. Even though his left leg wasn't cramping anymore, it was weak as hell and the knee and ankle still hurt, and he had to limp heavily. He could only hope Ike didn't drive past him. If he saw how he was walking now, he might decide he wanted another conversation. A more in-depth one, this time.

Thinking about him had Sam remembering what he and the other hunters had been saying as he walked by, even though he didn't want to. They'd been talking about him, he couldn't deny that. And his sexuality. Their opinion of that had been very clear. He remembered his last conversation with Gordon (while carefully skirting around how it'd ended), what it'd called him and how he'd said it didn't matter to him, because being a fag didn't have any bearing on a person's ability to hunt. Not on its own, at least. Sam smirked, which made his face hurt. He'd never thought he'd miss Gordon.

They'd mentioned somebody else, too, a friend of his. A "ginger dyke." That would have to be Charlie. Who...hell. He hadn't thought about her in months. He supposed he'd just been too busy, even though he couldn't have survived at the cabin without her and Garth bringing him supplies once a month or so.

He hadn't thought about Garth, either. Or Ellen, despite the fact that she'd taken him in after what'd happened with the wendigo and acted as his nurse and therapist and almost his mother. He'd lived under the same roof as Jo, and Ash, too, when he'd showed up, and not a single one of them had crossed Sam's mind since he and Dean had taken off. A stab of guilt hit him low in the gut. He would've run a hand through his hair, if he hadn't known it would hurt. Both because it was in a ponytail and because of the state that his hands were in.

They had to have heard the same version of events that everybody else had, since he hadn't even tried to give them his own. Were they worried about him? Did they suspect he might be dead? Could they believe what had been said about him? Were they wondering what he'd been thinking?

Did they hate him?

Sam swallowed. His mouth still tasted like blood from where he'd bitten his tongue. He wouldn't think any of them could hate him, but it wasn't like he'd made all that much of an effort to be close to them in recent years. Charlie and Garth usually only hung around long enough to unload his supplies and make the bare minimum of small talk, because they knew he wouldn't tolerate them staying any longer than that. The last time he'd called Ellen, she'd assumed he wanted something, and she'd been right. He only communicated with Ash via short, impersonal e-mails. And he couldn't even remember when he'd last spoken to Jo.

He'd withdrawn up there, in Bobby's cabin. Resented visits from hunters and people he'd used to consider family alike. The only ones he'd interacted with on a daily basis were the monsters, and he hadn't even taken good care of them, as proven by Vaughn. And he still missed all that, remembered it as the best part of his life. He probably deserved the wounds covering his body right now.

Sam closed his eyes, but only briefly, since he didn't need to trip over something and go down again. He should call them, all of them - just as soon as he got a new phone, he thought dryly to himself as the remains of his old one scraped against his knuckles. After everything they'd done for him, they at least deserved an explanation and an assurance that he was all right. Even if they did hate him.

He turned down the street that led to the library. It was a small building, and looked like it'd been a boxy little house before being converted into a library. The front yard had been paved to make a minuscule parking lot, but because it was a weekday morning in a rural town, there was only one car in it. The tiny Jetta that belonged to one of the two librarians - the younger one, the one Dean didn't have beef with but whom unfortunately dressed like she wanted to single-handedly enforce at least three different stereotypes at once. Hopefully, she and Dean would be the only ones inside. Sam knew he looked like roadkill and would rather not frighten any small children.

Normally, he would've gone back to the hotel first. Taken a shower, gotten dressed. But that would take time he didn't have, and the idea of hot water hitting his scrapes had him shuddering.

He pulled open the door and stepped inside. Almost immediately, there was a startled gasp from the front desk, which was squashed into a corner right next to the door. Sam glanced over to see the librarian (blonde, but with very obvious brunette roots; early twenties; lensless glasses; cable-knit sweater) covering her mouth with both hands, eyes wide.

"Oh, my god," she blurted, lowering her hands slightly and balling them into fists. "Did - did you get hit? What happened? Do you need me to call an ambulance?" One hand wavered towards the phone, a clunky corded model.

"No - no." Sam shook his head. His neck was stiff. "I just took a bad spill. Tripped over my own feet." He tried to smile, but _shit_ , it hurt. "Doubt I need an ambulance; nothing's broken. I just need to find my..." He trailed off, nervous about using the word "boyfriend," aware of the area of the country he was in.

"He's over there." The librarian pointed. She and the older lady switched off day to day, and Sam and Dean had been here for a few days, so she knew them. She knew they were together, even if she might not know in what way, and she knew Sam was a runner. She was also under the impression that they were investigative reporters. "Behind the Fiction shelf. Are you sure there's nothing I can do for you?"

"I'm fine. Thanks."

The small space was almost suffocatingly hot, and reeked of acid-based paper. It was a shock after coming in from the relative chill of the morning outside, and made Sam's fingers feel swollen and stiff as he folded his hood back. His shoes, wet from the leaves and mud, squeaked on the yellowing linoleum as he walked deeper into the library and rounded the lone bookshelf that housed the Fiction section. Dean was there, sitting at his usual round table, near the bank of three outdated computers and the printer. Sam had been kind of wondering why Dean hadn't come charging up as soon as he came in. His hearing was definitely good enough to alert him. He got his answer, though, when he saw that Dean was wearing his headphones, the cord plugged into the laptop and the band adjusted to fit his smaller head.

As Sam approached, Dean casually lifted his eyes from the screen to him. Then he instantly leaped to his feet, swearing - without bothering to take off or unplug the headphones. Sam yelped a little as the rubberized cord jerked taut and nearly yanked the laptop off the table. The headphones noisily clattered against the keyboard as Dean disappeared out from under them a fraction of a second later. Then he was right in front of Sam, studying him frantically and growling questions under his breath.

"Who did this to you? Where all are you hurt? Did anything bite you?"

"Nobody did anything to me, it's just road rash - and _don't_ teleport in public." Dean had been going to touch his face, so Sam grabbed his wrists with his flayed hands, then glanced towards the librarian. She'd stood up at her desk and was peering worriedly over the shelves towards them. "We've gotta leave. Right now."

"Whatever it is, you look like you fell in a meat grinder," Dean replied, tugging his wrists free of Sam's hands and apparently ignoring everything else he'd said. "Lemme heal you."

"Not here," Sam said tensely. Another glance at the librarian. "Not 'til we're in another town - or, even better, another state. I remember it drains you and I'd feel better if you were at full power."

Dean eyed him, then shook his head. "Fixing scrapes and bruises wouldn't put me out too much," he pointed out. "Not like when I did your leg." He took a step back, then lowered himself into his chair. Sam stayed where he was, impatient and frustrated. "What's got you so spooked?"

"There are hunters in town." Sam tried not to spit it out. But he felt awful and he was afraid, and it seemed like Dean wasn't taking this seriously. "And they were talking about us."

Dean straightened, finally looking troubled. "What the hell're they doing here? There's nothing to hunt. I'd know if there was."

"I don't know, just - talking." Sam pulled the rubber band out of his hair, wincing when doing that pulled on several (likely bruised) areas of his scalp. "They're at the gas station. They might be gone by now, I don't know. They were standing around and drinking, maybe four or five of them. I got the feeling they were just passing through the area and happened to meet up."

"The gas station's a good distance from here," Dean said, nodding. "Did they see you?"

"Yeah, but they didn't recognize me," Sam replied. "'Cause I wasn't limping."

"How come you didn't call me?" Dean asked. "Clearly, you were freaking out about this the whole way over here. And I'm not saying it's not a problem," he added hastily, holding up a hand. Maybe in response to Sam's increasing annoyance. "But we could've worked out a plan."

Sam huffed out a laugh, then pulled a few pieces of his cell phone out of his pocket and tossed a few onto the table in front of Dean. It was a good thing they were alone in the library. Between the two of them, they were sure making a lot of noise.

"I would've," he replied. "But I landed on my phone."

"Hell, Sam." Dean picked up what'd once been the charging port and its surrounding case, then dropped it again. "I don't wanna see the bruise this must've left on you. We're gonna have to get you a new one of these ASAP." He looked up at him. "So...what happened, exactly? I'm assuming they didn't road-haul you."

"No." Sam played with the rubber band, which he was still holding. He should really stop, considering how much it was making the scrapes on his hand hurt. "I..." He sighed, and barely stopped himself from rubbing a sore hand over his equally-damaged face. "It's stupid. But as soon as I was away from them, I started running again, then I..." His left leg trembled slightly inside his pants, and his tongue suddenly seemed as weak as it was. At least it wasn't cramping up.

"Tripped?" Dean supplied. Sam nodded. "You're gonna have to let me heal that eventually, I hope you realize. It looks awful and the smell of blood's everywhere." He paused, and it almost seemed like an afterthought when he asked, "Does it hurt?"

Sam just nodded, even though what he was feeling was rapidly approaching agony as the last of the adrenaline wore off, leaving him tired and fuzzy-headed. It didn't surprise him that Dean didn't remember the pain of frayed nerve endings exposed to the open air. Scrapes just seemed so _human_ when he really thought about it.

"Yeah, no wonder," Dean said, nodding and then leaning forward to squint at him. "Looks like you've got dirt ground into you. That's just nasty." Regretfully, he added, "It's gonna hurt like a bitch when I take care of it for you."

"That doesn't surprise me," Sam said, heaving a sigh. Regrowing anything, from muscles to skin, was just about as painful as taking it off had been.

He waited silently after that, although he wasn't sure what for. Maybe for Dean to pack up and follow him back to the hotel. Or, better yet, teleport them as soon as they were out of the library. But none of that happened. Instead, Dean just cleared his throat after a while, gestured to the chair next to him, and almost gently suggested, "Go ahead and take a seat, Sammy."

Sam reflexively glanced towards the door, feeling a thread of panic wrap itself around his stomach because Dean wasn't listening to him and it wasn't like he could run off without him. "But we've gotta - "

"I know," Dean interrupted, but not in an asshole kind of way. "And we will. We'll leave in just a few minutes, I promise. This is bad; I don't like that they're here, and I really don't want either of us near them. But you're gonna choose a hunt first, so we know where we're going."

"Do we really have time for that?" Sam asked, shaking his head and spreading his hands.

"We're fine," Dean replied. "They're a ways away, and if they're not working a case here, they're not coming to the library. They're not gonna follow you, either. You said they didn't recognize you."

"They didn't, but - " Sam looked at the door again, and cut himself off, not sure how to justify how anxious he was feeling. There had to be a reason, right? He just needed to find the right words to explain it to Dean.

"I'll get us outta here like _that_ if one of them comes in," Dean said, snapping his fingers. "And if they try to put a devil's trap around this whole building so I can't teleport, I'll feel it before they close it, and we'll leave. It'll be okay." He just stared at Sam for a few seconds, then sighed, looking away and shaking his head slightly. "Just sit down. Please. You're shaking."

Sam knew Dean was trying to placate him, and wasn't sure he could actually tell when a devil's trap was being drawn around him. Other demons couldn't, and at the end of the day, all that separated a Knight from the infernal hoi polloi was raw power. Not so much increased sensitivity. It shouldn't have made him feel better, and he hated that it did.

"Fine," Sam said stiffly, and not just because it was getting hard to move his face. Especially the scraped part. He crossed the few feet between himself and the chair, almost painfully conscious of the weakness in his left leg, and hoped Dean wouldn't say anything if he didn't. He should've known better.

"You hurt your leg, too?" Dean asked as Sam lowered himself into the chair.

"Yep."

"Well, that sucks." Dean turned the laptop towards him, unplugging the headphones and winding the cord up around the ear cups. "Sooner we finish this, though, sooner I can patch you up."

"I know." Dean's abilities wouldn't do anything for his leg, but they would at least take care of all the external injuries, which would admittedly be pretty nice. They were starting to get really distracting.

He reached for the laptop and scooted it a little closer to himself, studying the screen. He'd intended to go through the tabs, every one (besides the one Dean had open to listen to music), and at least skim through the articles that Dean had dug up; he really had. Even though he was still pretty sure that this was a waste of time that they couldn't afford, and he felt like this was a way for Dean to force him to pick a case because he didn't trust him to do it on his own. As soon as he touched the track pad, though, everything that'd happened today seemed to bear down on him at once. Running into the hunters, the fall, remembering everyone. An irresistible urge to be as petulant as possible came with it. He clicked on the first tab that Dean had open, then pointed to the story that came up without bothering to read the title or where it was from.

"That one," he said. Dean reached for the laptop and tugged it back over to himself so he could see what Sam had chosen, then frowned.

"That one?" he repeated, a little doubtfully. "You sure?"

"Yes," Sam replied, stubbornly ignoring the feeling that he'd end up regretting this later.

"Okay." Apparently content to give Sam enough rope to hang himself if he was really determined to do so, Dean shrugged and folded the screen of the laptop down. "Grave desecration in Montana it is."

Sam remained stonily silent as Dean put the laptop back in the case and added the headphones before zipping it up. He was frustrated and angry, but still couldn't put a finger on exactly why. Maybe it was just everything, all of it, since he'd had to leave his cabin. Or since Dean had been brought to him. Or since his leg had been ruined. Or maybe just since he'd been born.

"Let's go." Sam was broken out of his thoughts by Dean's voice, and looked up to find him standing over him. He had the laptop case in one hand and was offering the other to Sam. His eyes were soft and his face was kind. He seemed to have trouble with expressions sometimes, apparently not quite used to using his meat to imitate the human he'd been born as, but he'd nailed it this time.

Something loosened in Sam. Just barely. He let Dean help him up.

They left the library, pausing to assure the still-worried librarian that Sam would be fine. Dean would be with him for the rest of the day and he knew how to take care of him. Sam considered telling her goodbye, since they wouldn't be back and she'd been pretty nice to both of them, but ultimately didn't. He pushed through the front door with Dean.

Once they were past the parking lot, Dean put his free arm around Sam's waist, letting him lean heavily on him since he was still limping. They weren't that far from the motel and people might be watching, so Dean didn't teleport them. He did turn and press his face into Sam's hair when they were nearly to their room, though.

"C'mon - you don't wanna do that," Sam complained. He nudged Dean with his shoulder, but not hard enough to actually push him away. "I haven't showered since yesterday and I'm all sweaty."

"I think you smell good," Dean replied, voice muffled by Sam's scalp. He did pull back after a second, though, and look at Sam. He observed, "You're in kind of a dark place right now."

Sam sighed. "It's just been a shitty morning. I'll be fine - especially once we're out of here."

"Is that all it is?" Dean asked, rubbing Sam's hip. When Sam nodded, he asked, "How d'you feel about the hunt?"

"'Bout as well as I can expect to," Sam replied. "It's just something I'm gonna have to do no matter how I feel about it."

"Could be worse, I guess." Dean unlocked their door without using the key. "Before we pack up and go, I'm gonna heal you, and you're not gonna argue. Go sit on the bed."

Sam groaned loudly, unable to suppress a twinge of resentment but aware he wasn't going to change Dean's mind. He limped into the room, lowered himself gingerly onto the foot of the bed, and braced for what was coming.


	3. Chapter 3

_Ghouls are some of those very rare monsters where there are a lot of them, all over the place, but you're not going to run into them very often. For the most part, they're passive scavengers who will work as hard to avoid you as you do them. They do feed on humans, but those humans are almost always dead first. Because of this, they're also an important part of our ecosystem, but that's not exactly relevant._

 _Ghouls will only become a problem for a couple of reasons, and a major one has to do with embalming fluid. Most corpses these days are embalmed, and the process does involve replacing the body's blood with, basically, a poison. Feeding off embalmed bodies will slowly kill ghouls, render them sterile, and occasionally cause brain damage or dementia. This is why you'll see higher concentrations of healthy ghouls in cemeteries where a lot of people whose faiths don't allow embalming, like Orthodox Judaism and Islam, are buried. Those aren't common, though._

 _They're technically shapeshifers. They can take the form of anybody they've fed off of, and when they eat, they automatically take on the appearance of whoever they've got their teeth in. This means that they can approach people as their dead relatives, which makes it easy for unstable ghouls, sick ones, or those who are just tired of eating tainted meat to hunt living humans. Luckily, killing them isn't all that complicated._

 _-_ Ghouls, Ghosts, and Graveyards in General, _Sam Winchester_

* * *

Sam frowned down at the laminated card in his hands, tilting it so it caught the sunlight, then spinning it between his fingertips. He looked at the picture, then the logo, then the rest of the information on it. After a second, he lowered it and glanced over at Dean, whose own card was sitting on the seat between them.

"I don't know," he told him. "It just doesn't look real to me."

"It'll look a lot better once you get it in the holder, with the badge," Dean replied without looking at him. "Plus, even if it ain't exact, most people only look at it for about half a second, and they've got no idea what a real FBI badge looks like. Just flashing it at 'em is enough."

Sam eyed the card critically. He had to admit that he had no idea what a real FBI badge looked like himself. He had had contact with legitimate agents, but considering that he'd been unconscious when they picked him up, he hadn't exactly had the opportunity to ask for a peek at their badges. The closest he'd ever gotten was his father's fake one, and Bobby's (from whose house Dean had scavenged the covers they were going to use...along with a few of his own older IDs, for various occupations). He didn't remember them exactly, since his memory was pretty good but not photographic, but he thought this one might be better.

He'd never had one before. When he'd been a hunter the first time, he'd been way too young to pass for any kind of agent, marshal, or officer, and he'd looked it, despite his height. So his dad had kept him away from interviews and had him do mostly library research and wetwork. Maybe he was nervous about this badge because it meant he was going to be interacting with total strangers, most of whom had recently experienced a traumatic event. While impersonating an officer of the law.

Clearly able to pick up on Sam's unease, Dean cleared his throat to get his attention. "It probably looks fake to you for the same reason you're gonna look fake to the people we talk to." He shot him a glare. "Your stupid hair."

Sam scowled back. "If people don't know what an FBI badge looks like, they're probably not going to know about FBI haircut regulations, either. Besides." He tapped the little plastic-covered card. "This says I'm a _special_ agent. Maybe the rules are different for them." He raised an eyebrow at Dean. "Plus, FBI agents are supposed to be clean-shaven, and you've got some pretty serious stubble going on."

"Well, not like I can shave it off." Dean took a hand off the wheel in order to rub his chin, looking at himself in the rearview mirror. "It won't grow back."

"So?"

"Your hair _would_ grow back," Dean returned. "Why don't you cut it?"

"Fine." Sam backed down. "We've got the suits, we've got the guns, and now we've got the badges." He lifted his. "Which, according to you, nobody's going to look too closely at. That should be enough." He finally dropped the card on top of Dean's and resolved not to look at it anymore, sick of his own deer-in-the-headlights expression in the photo on it. He'd been startled by the flash. "How much further to Black Eagle?"

"Not too much," Dean replied. "Coming up on Great Falls now." When Sam made to turn around in his seat so he could reach into the box in the back, Dean warned, " _Don't_ look at the road map again."

Sam snorted. But stayed where he was anyway. "Remember that discussion we had the other day? About the fine line between 'protective boyfriend' and 'controlling asshole' and how you kinda seem to have one foot on either side of it lately?" Dean didn't answer, and probably not because the highway was taking up all of his attention. Sam let the silence stretch out for a few moments, then looked away from Dean, staring out the window. "I'm not gonna have a breakdown just 'cause there's a town called Vaughn near Great Falls. It's not a big deal."

"You can keep telling yourself that, if you want," Dean replied. "But I know how you felt when you first saw it."

Sam didn't say anything for a while. He picked at a knot in the stitching of his jeans, watching farmland and forests roll by outside the tiny enclosed environment of the car, and tried to pretend that he wasn't almost painfully aware of the small box in his backpack, in the trunk, next to Dean's duffel. Dean stayed quiet, too. Maybe five minutes passed, then Sam felt a hand against his own. Not holding or grabbing, just touching. He sighed softly through his nose, and didn't move. Dean took his hand back after another few minutes.

"So it's gonna be another half-hour," Dean said, voice neutral. He seemed to have near-perfect control over how he sounded. No matter what he might be feeling if he wanted to talk casually, it never came out sounding forced. Sam didn't think he'd ever met anybody with that ability before. "Maybe forty-five minutes. Depends on the traffic, so let's hope nobody hits a moose."

Sam smirked. He knew it'd been meant as a joke, but it was a possibility - this was Montana, and from what he'd seen so far, he was mostly convinced that the entire state was rural.

"So are you thinking it's a ghoul?" Sam asked Dean, changing the subject.

"Yeah, that's the main thing that digs up graves and eats corpses," Dean agreed, nodding. "It could be something more exotic, I guess, but when you hear hoofbeats..."

"Horses, not zebras. Especially up here." The knot on Sam's jeans was starting to unravel; he hastily stopped picking at it, on the off chance pulling it loose made his pants fall apart. "It's gotta be more than one, right? Usually they tunnel in from underneath the grave, so no one can tell they've been feeding. But that takes time. If there are a bunch of them and they're desperate for food, that could explain why they're ripping in from above." He shrugged. "Just what I was thinking."

"Yeah, it's either that or one that's sick or crazy," Dean agreed. "Either way, it's a problem 'cause it's only a matter of time 'til they either run outta graves or get tire of coffin surprise and decide to switch over to live people." He rubbed a thumb against the ridges of the steering wheel, appearing to think, then eventually commented, "You probably know this already, but we almost never have to go after ghouls, since they feed on people who're already dead and they don't pop out mini-ghouls very fast." He seemed to be really warming to the topic. "See, a good-sized cemetery - 'specially one that's still active - can support a whole clan for - "

"Mischief."

Sam's interrupt brought Dean up short. He saw him blink, but thankfully, his eyes didn't switch over. They were on a highway, so there were a ton of people who might see it if they did.

"Uh. What?"

"A group of ghouls is called a mischief," Sam replied. "Not a clan. And their babies are pups." Though he actually liked "mini-ghouls" better.

"Says who?" Dean demanded.

"Says _me_." It wasn't without a certain degree of smugness that Sam added, "Writing the books on monsters means I get to decide on the terminology."

Dean stared at him for a long time, far past the point where a human driver would've had to look back at the road. Sam raised his eyebrows, waiting. Finally, Dean asked, "So why in the _living fuck_ would you choose _that_ terminology?"

"Took it from rats," Sam replied. He'd had to defend this before. "Since rats used to be a huge problem in graveyards, and they used the same feeding methods ghouls usually do." He shrugged. "Y'know, the ghoul I studied liked it. Did you know they actually have a really rich oral culture? He - she - _it_ knew they used to live side-by-side with graveyard rats up to a couple hundred years ago, but it wasn't sure whether they competed with them or kind of domesticated them. Maybe it was - "

"Okay, okay, just - shut up, I don't..." Shaking his head, Dean held an open hand out towards Sam. "I really don't care. None of that sounds like it's gonna help me take own whatever it is we're after here." He put his hand back on the wheel and glanced over at him. "How did it take so long for somebody to come to your cabin and try to kill you?"

" _Wow_ , Dean," Sam said, putting as much venom into the two words as he could manage.

"Sorry." Looking frustrated, Dean ran a hand over his hair. "I'm glad it took so long."

"Uh, yeah...me, too." It'd been a passable apology, so Sam let it go. Helping a demon re-learn how to act like a human being was a lot like potty-training a puppy. He had accidents, Sam reprimanded him, he did better the next time. And, when he did well, he got rewarded.

"You hungry?" Dean asked after a little while. Recognizing an attempt on Dean's part to take care of him and therefore make amends, Sam glanced at the dashboard clock. It was nearing noon, so a meal might be a good idea.

"Yeah, I could eat."

They stopped at a diner in Great Falls. Sam wasn't sure why, but Dean really seemed to prefer these kinds of locally-owned greasy spoons to chain restaurants. He wasn't about to complain, since their salads (when they had them, at least) usually seemed to be fresher. Once he'd eaten, they kept heading north into Black Eagle, where they wasted about an hour looking for a motel. It was a fine line between a place that was cheap enough for them to afford and discreet enough for their purposes, and a place that charged by the hour.

They finally did manage to locate a place that'd work, even if the guy behind the desk gave the two of them a ridiculously nasty look when they asked for one bed. If Sam had been the one reserving the room, he might've asked for two. They'd only use one, but it was worth it to avoid the negative attention that they attracted when people knew they were a couple. It was always Dean, though, and he practically reveled in the open stares and the muttered slurs and the hostility. Maybe he somehow fed off the bad energy.

"Okay." Dean unlocked the door to the room. With the key, because there were other guests around. "We've got a pretty standard list of places to hit up while it's still light out. Sheriff's office, morgue, wherever the cemetery's caretaker hangs out when he's not taking care. Maybe the local funeral home, too." He stepped into the room, still talking. Sam followed with his backpack slung over one shoulder. "So we need to suit up, put our badges together, and - "

"Actually, I've...got a few calls to make," Sam said, suppressing a sigh. He'd been dreading this all day. Since Bellevue, really. He'd told himself he'd wait until they were settled in the town they were doing the hunt in, and that had come much quicker than he'd expected it to.

"Who to?" Dean asked, turning to him with a frown.

"You know Ellen." Sam set his backpack down on the bed for the moment. The room was decorated in hunter kitsch - conventional hunter, not his sort. Wallpaper patterned with game animals (salmon, elk, duck) was interrupted by wood laminate wainscoting. Day-Glo orange pillows sat on top of a camouflage bedspread. A tiny pair of plastic antlers, meant to be used as either a coat hook or a holder for the room key, had been affixed to the wall near the door. Not at all up Sam's alley as far as interior decorating went, but it could be worse. "And you saw Garth when he brought me supplies back when you were still tied up." He let the sigh from earlier out. "There are others, too. All the people who used to take care of me. And I haven't talked to any of them in months, but I need to call all of them at least once, so I can explain what's happening to me, because they deserve that much."

When he turned around to face Dean, he looked surprised. "You haven't called any of them?"

"When would I have?" Sam replied. "You've been with me practically the entire time since I left the cabin. Did you ever see me call anybody?"

"No," Dean admitted. "You're right, though - you really oughta check in. From what you told me, these people're a pretty huge part of your life." It was Sam's turn to be surprised, since he hadn't expected him to understand anywhere near as well as he clearly did. "But you really haven't made a peep to anybody since everything went down?"

Sam shook his head, the guilt setting in all over again.

"How d'you think they're gonna react to your..." Dean walked over and sat down on the corner of the bed, then gestured back and forth between the two of them. "Elopement?"

"I don't know." Sam put his hands over his face, then dragged them up and back through his hair. Unlike the crowd he'd run into back in Bellevue, his sexuality wouldn't bother them: most knew already, and the one or two who didn't wouldn't care. They might about the fact that his boyfriend wasn't human, though. "Honestly, I'm not sure what I'm more worried about: that, or the fact I killed a hunter."

"Uh, right," Dean agreed, and raised both eyebrows. "After that hunter damn near caved your giant skull in with a shotgun butt, strapped you to a chair with zipties, basically tortured you while you were out, an then told you he was gonna leave you to die. I'm not sure what the dictionary definition of self-defense is, but that's gotta come pretty close." He leaned back, as if reminiscing. "Plus, the fact that you killed him with your feet while you were still tied up is just so freaking cool that you could probably get a pass on it even if he'd been Mother Teresa reincarnated." He must have felt Sam's reaction to that. It would have been easy, seeing as it was immediate, deep, and visceral. "Sorry, but...the way you ganked him's really not something you've gotta feel guilty about. 'Specially 'cause the only reason your legs were free to begin with was he didn't think you'd be able to do any damage with them."

"I don't wanna talk about it, Dean." Sam turned away from him. It felt like this happened every time either one of them brought up Gordon's death, and it was infuriating. Dean could detect exactly how he felt about this, so shouldn't that make him more sympathetic rather than less?

"Well, you're gonna have to talk about it with _them_ ," Dean replied. "I know you feel bad about this, but I don't know _why_. And I know you think your friends are gonna wanna crucify you for it, but again, no idea why. Did any of them _like_ him? 'Cause I just can't see that happening." He shook his head. "I spent time with Gordon too, remember? And I know I'm a demon and all and he was probably justified in some of the stuff he did to me, but it was still perfectly clear that the guy was a psychopath. He didn't draw the line anywhere when it came to torture and murder. He was hard to read, but he might've even gotten off on it."

"Pot and kettle." It wasn't a nice thing to say, but Sam couldn't see Dean being terribly offended by it.

" _Wow_ , Sam," Dean said, and then just sat there for a minute, apparently waiting for an apology. Sam, who wasn't about to offer one, just raised his eyebrows again. Eventually, Dean snorted, shook his head, and continued, in a much more serious tone of voice. "Look. Like you said, I know Ellen. Or I knew her, at least, and I just can't imagine she'd've changed to the point where she'd cry over a guy like Gordon between then an now. She's not gonna hate you for what happened with him. Neither's Garth. Neither are any of the others. I can almost guarantee."

Logically, Sam knew Dean was right. When logic and emotion competed for space in his brain, though, logic didn't always win. He chose to change the subject a little. "What about what happened with you?"

Dean hesitated before answering the question. "Yeah. I'm not sure about that one. Could do...any way at all, really. Especially depending on the person. And how you explain things." He paused again, and Sam didn't have to be psychically empathetic to be able to see how hard it was for him to force himself to offer, "Want me to talk to anybody?"

"No," Sam said, letting him off the hook. And not mentioning that he doubted any of them would want to talk to Dean even if he asked. "I'm pretty sure I can handle it."

"Good to hear." Dean's subtle relaxation might've been all in Sam's head, but then again, it might not've. "So...you just want me to wait outside 'til you're all done with everybody, or what? Or at least however many people you're planning to call today."

"Uh..." Sam blinked. "I thought you were gonna 'suit up' and go interview people."

"Yeah, with you," Dean replied, as if that really should have gone without saying.

"Why d'you have to have me with you?" Sam asked, honestly puzzled.

"Well...y'know." Dean shrugged, starting to look a little embarrassed. "I just need you to...kinda...keep an eye out, and pay attention, and do that thing you do." He waited a second, then tacked on another entirely-useless but hopeful-sounding, "Y'know?"

"What thing?"

Dean shook his head. "I really don't wanna go alone."

"Obviously, but _why_?" Sam pressed. He was wracking his brain, but he couldn't come up with any "thing" he did that Dean would need to work a case.

He had to admit, though. If this was Dean's way of distracting him from the stress of reaching out to call all his friends again after months of silence, it was a great tactic.

"FBI agents are suppose to have partners," Dean stated. A little stubbornly, to Sam's ears.

"Usually, but I'm pretty sure they can work alone, too," Sam replied. "Plus, you could always just tell people I'm busy doing something else, since they're bound to see us together later. Research. Checking in with our supervisor. Whatever."

Dean raked a hand through his hair. Sam knew he usually put gel in it, and today hadn't been an exception, so he had to suppress a wince when his fingers didn't get caught. He couldn't believe he hadn't yanked out any of his hair, doing that.

"That's not the point," Dean said, then went on and plowed ahead before Sam could dryly ask him what the point was. "If you're with me, you can...make sure I..." He glanced away, and his voice dropped to a mumble for the last part. "Act normal."

Sam reached for one of the chairs at the room's small table, dragging it over so he could sit down across from Dean. He straddled it backwards, folding his arms and leaning on the back of the chair.

"So that's what's got you all worried?" he asked, frowning. "You'll be fine. Just don't let your eyes switch. You don't need me there - you can pass for human. You do it every day!"

"It's _different_ when it's just me and you, or when it doesn't really matter," Dean insisted. "Like when I'm getting a room for us or ordering you a coffee. But you're nervous as hell about working a case, doing interviews, all that stuff. I can tell, and I know it's 'cause it's been years. Well, I'm in the same boat." He put a hand on his chest. "Plus, I know I've hardly even gotta mention how much I've changed since the last time I did this."

Dean had a point, and Sam felt bad when he realized he hadn't given any of this any thought before now. Of course he'd considered having your mind and emotions - your soul itself - broken and twisted to the point where you literally couldn't behave or feel the way you'd used to, but left just intact enough to realize you'd changed and sort of remember how you'd been to begin with. To say he couldn't imagine it, despite how much time he'd spent with Dean, barely scratched the surface of his ignorance. But the difficulties of returning to something you'd used to do before, when you were so different, hadn't ever occurred to him. In comparison, Sam had it easy.

"To get anything out of an interview, you've gotta get people to trust you," Dean continued, after a few seconds of silence. Hoping he hadn't been waiting for him to reply, Sam nodded his agreement. When weird, unbelievable stuff happened to people, ninety-nine percent were reluctant to tell anybody about it. Even a law enforcement officer or a reporter who focused on supernatural events or a faith leader (Sam had seen his father and other hunters impersonate them all, and more). You had to win them over. "The badge'll do a lot of that for you. But if somebody's perceptive, it won't stop them from noticing there's something wrong with me. And if they do, they won't talk to me."

"Okay - that's a legitimate concern," Sam agreed. He shouldn't have blown Dean off earlier. Especially considering how good Dean was with him when he was worrying about something much stupider and less consequential. "I'm not sure how much having me there would help, though. All I can really do is police you. You'll still have said something...y'know, _bad_ by the time I snap at you."

"Just having you around is a big help," Dean replied. And although he didn't elaborate, Sam could remember the handful of times Dean had said being with him made him feel human. Helped him recall all the things he'd forgotten about his past life.

"How do other demons do it?" Sam asked. He hadn't meant to; it'd just sort of popped out. Even now, months after he'd written anything or taken any notes, he still slipped back into researcher mode at least a couple times a week. Then his curiosity couldn't be ignored. No matter the situation.

Dean snorted. "They've just got a lot more practice. 'Specially the crossroads crowd. But I really haven't been outta the Pit that long compared to other demons, and I haven't interacted with a lot of humans since, either. I didn't need to." He shrugged. "Even Princes and Lords, who're really supposed to spend most of their time in Hell when things are normal, have this 'human' act they can drop when they don't need it anymore. I never built one up, though. It's always just been me."

"That could be part of your problem," Sam suggested. The way Dean inclined his head slightly told him he didn't know what he was talking about, so he continued. "You've got a lot of emotions a normal demon doesn't. You said so yourself. But you still feel and think about things differently from a human. A human who's not a serial killer, at least." Dean scowled, and Sam raised his hands in a _What can you do?_ sort of way. He suspected he hadn't actually hurt his feelings, anyway. "You're not switching back and forth. They're both part of your real personality, and since that's always on display, they both come out."

"Guess that makes sense." Dean put his hands behind him on the mattress and leaned on them, looking troubled. Then he sighed and brought one back around to rub at his face. "I'm sorry. I really shouldn't be bitching about this right now. You've got all your calls to make, and I know you're not looking forward to it. I can handle the interviews."

"No, no - you don't have to if you're really uncomfortable with it." Sam stood, swinging one leg back over the chair and walking towards the bed. He sat down next to Dean. "And you don't have to apologize. This is a real concern; you've got every right to bitch." Sam was definitely not relieved that Dean was showing some insecurity, even though it was usually him and he'd been starting to feel like a crybaby. "We're working on it, we're both just gonna ease back into it. And if you want me to go with you, I will. Just let me at least call Ellen first." He put a hand on Dean's shoulder, squeezing gently. "But I really think you'd do okay. If you don't overthink it and stick to your topic, and let your badge and suit do their job."

Dean grunted. It wasn't as real of an answer as Sam would've liked, but at least it was an answer. They just sat on the bed together for a while, Dean not looking at him and Sam keeping a hand on his shoulder because he hadn't made any effort to shrug it off, and he wouldn't exactly say that it was _nice_ , but it was at least comfortable. For Sam; he wasn't sure how Dean felt. Did he regret letting Sam see weakness from him? Was he trying to make up his mind about what to do? Sam was just about to ask him what he was thinking when Dean huffed out a loud breath, indicating he was about to say something.

"Guess I've gotta fly solo sooner or later no matter what," he commented. "After all, that's what I did most of the time before. And even when I was working with a partner, there are times when you've gotta split up. Cover more ground." He finally looked at Sam again, offering him a wry little smile. "Plus, after all the shit I've bullied you into doing, it'd be pretty hypocritical of me not to man up and do this."

"There's nothing hypocritical about wanting to wait for me," Sam argued immediately. "You've never 'bullied' me, and I need pushing sometimes. I spent my downtime writing books in a cabin." He swallowed. "You were in Hell. There's a pretty significant difference."

That had Dean looking away again, and he sort of wished he hadn't mentioned it. It was the truth, though. Sam let go of Dean as he stood up, folding his hands in his lap and watching him.

"I've already made up my mind," Dean said, turning to face him. "You're coming clean to everybody about me and Gordon and everything else; I'm gonna go interview everybody who might know anything about these ghouls. Simple as that." He pointed at Sam. "But if I screw up, you're gonna have to make the rounds after I do and smooth things over with those puppy-dog eyes of yours."

Sam wasn't entirely sure how Dean expected him to do that, but he supposed that this was a compromise he could get behind. So he nodded his agreement and waited on the bed while Dean changed into a suit. Before he left, he got up to tighten his tie, tuck the end of it into the waistband of his slacks, and button his jacket fully. He'd expected Dean to complain or make a crack about Sam not being his mother, but he actually seemed to appreciate it.

"Had a hard time remembering all those little things even when I was human," Dean commented. "Thanks."

"Gotta earn my keep somehow," Sam replied, finishing up with Dean's jacket. He hesitated, then put his hands on Dean's hips and looked down at him. Just barely. The difference in their heights wasn't all that great. "Good luck."

"It's a milk run," Dean replied. "Can't even count the number of cops and coroners I've interviewed over the years. I'll be fine, like you said." He raised a hand to stroke Sam's hair. "So'll you. These people are basically your family; they'll understand. And hopefully you'll wind up with somebody to lean on besides me."

Sam smirked, lifting only one side of his mouth. "Even if I don't, you're enough."

"I know. I'm awesome." Dean patted Sam's shoulder, stepped away from him, made sure he had his gun and badge (which identified him as Agent Ulrich), and then left.

Sam waited alone in the room for a few minutes, listening to the car's engine start up and then fade away as Dean drove off. He tried to think of something else he needed to do, anything, but there was nothing. The distraction Dean had provided had been very welcome, but he couldn't put it off anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

_Humans are social animals. Ironically, that's something we've got in common with a lot of monsters. Vampires, for example, who can't function outside of a nest and feel the urge to create more of their own when they're alone. (Which is why you have to make sure you get every member when you're exterminating a nest. For more information on vampires, click here.)_

 _Believe me, I understand the urge to withdraw from other people. We can be dicks, and hunting provides you with more opportunities than normal to see the worst humanity has to offer. But you can't just shut out all other human beings. Not only are you going to have to depend on people in order to be successful in this line of work, but your own biology will make you crave company. Yes, just like a vampire._

 _You need information to find and work a case, and most of it will come from people, both civilians and other hunters. Some things are too strong or too numerous for one person to take down, and you'll die if you try to do it without one or more partners. On a more basic level, you're probably going to starve to death if you can't bring yourself to interact with anyone. You can't work in any job, and especially not as a hunter, without coming into contact with people, and you can't function as a halfway-normal individual without a social network._

 _The people in your network don't have to be your friends. In fact, it's likely they won't be. You'll probably either be much closer than friends or hardly able to stand each other, but how you feel about them just so long as you know you can trust them. You need someone you can talk to every once in a while, someone who will come looking for you if you don't check in, someone you can call on for help if you're hurt or in over your head._

 _Just take my word for it: you won't get far without people to lean on._

 _\- "The Hunting Community," posted on website of Sam Winchester_

* * *

Sam went to his backpack and unzipped one of the outer pockets, pulling out his cell phone. It was new, and basically identical to the one that he'd accidentally obliterated: small and cheap. He turned it on as he sat down on the bed again and got set up to make a call. As far as he knew, Ellen still didn't have a cell phone. She didn't really need one, seeing as she rarely left Harvelle's Roadhouse. Up until recently, he'd been a lot like her - heavily involved in the hunting community, but not a hunter himself.

He didn't have the number for the Roadhouse's landline in his contacts. In fact, the only number he did have was for Dean's phone. It didn't matter because he had it memorized, had for years. He looked at the keypad, the numbers and the letters they represented glowing an artificial blue with backlight, and impulsively punched in the number before he had another chance to talk himself out of it.

He brought the phone up to his ear. He knew that he wouldn't have much time to prepare himself. Ellen never let it ring long, even when her place was busy (which it often was) because, in their world, any call to an establishment like the Roadhouse could literally be life or death.

It din't ring at all, though. Instead, there was silence, along with a faint clicking on the line. And then a robotic voice apologized, and told him that the number he'd dialed was no longer in use.

Sam brought the phone away from his ear before the familiar message could finish, staring down at it. The number he'd put in was still on the screen, and he knew it was right. He hadn't missed or messed up any digits. Just in case, though, he ended the call and tried dialing again, being almost exaggeratedly deliberate and careful about it this time. When he got the same result anyway, he was forced to admit that something was wrong.

It could've been something as innocent and mundane as the phone lines in that part of the country being down, either because of weather or human activity. That was a strong possibility; it was an older building, barely up to the standards of the twenty-first century and then only because of Ash's near-constant efforts, and one that was located in a rural part of Nebraska. But it seemed like nothing was ever innocent for Sam, especially these days. He'd spent months not even thinking about the Harvelles and Ash, an the past couple of days dreading making a call to them, but now he was suddenly desperate to make contact with them. It didn't matter if they thought he was a traitor or an abomination. He just wanted to know they were alive.

Sitting on the foot of the bed, with the camouflage comforter doing very little to pad out the lumpy mattress, Sam almost unconsciously bounced one leg rapidly up and down. He swallowed, hard, as he turned his phone around and around in his hands. He was on the verge of panic, but knew that he had to force himself to think.

Ellen wouldn't have changed the number. There were too many people that might've hurt, him possibly included. She didn't have a cell. That fact had already run through his mind earlier. Neither did Ash; he much preferred computers to phones. Sam briefly considered e-mailing him, then shook his head. Not only was he afraid to open his inbox, but there was no guarantee that an e-mail would reach Ash in anything resembling a timely manner.

(What if Ash had already e-mailed him, though? What if an explanation for what was going on now had been sitting in Sam's inbox for weeks - or, even worse, a request for help? What if they were all dead now because he was too much of a coward to scroll through a few hundred death threats and personal insults?

(He needed to log onto his account and face the damn music, once he'd exhausted all his other options.)

Jo almost certainly had a phone, given her age and the fact that she'd started venturing out from home every once in a while. Not for college or work; Ellen was terrified she was going to start hunting. Sam knew that, but he'd been too wrapped up in his own little world to ever think about asking for her number.

He wasn't going to be able to contact any of them. His best shot would be to call somebody else an hope they could tell him what'd happened, either Charlie or Garth. More people talked to Garth, so he'd probably be a better bet.

Sam had his number memorized, too. He dialed it.

His shoulders literally slumped with relief when it rang, instead of delivering another error message. He knew what he would've done if he hadn't been able to get ahold of Garth - he would've tried to call Charlie - but it definitely would've sent his anxiety levels rocketing up.

"Hey, there, who's this?" Garth's voice, bright and effortlessly friendly, had Sam sucking in an unexpectedly sharp breath. "I don't recognize your number."

Leave it to him to take a call from an unknown number and be nice about it. Sam had to swallow and clench his free hand into a fist in an effort to pull himself together before he could speak; he hadn't realized how much he'd been missing him this whole time.

"It's me," Sam said quietly. He wasn't sure what to expect, even from Garth. "Sam. Winchester."

"Oh my god! Sam!" Garth's response was immediate and his excitement palpable, even through the phone. His volume had gone up, too, and Sam had to move his cell an inch or two away from his ear in order to avoid getting a headache. "You wouldn't _believe_ how much I've missed you, and - and - how freaking _worried_ I've been. I went to your cabin when I started hearing things, and it was trashed! Nobody knew where you were and I couldn't even find anybody who knew for sure you were alive. Not that a lot of people have been willing to talk to me lately." Sam winced. That was another thing that hadn't occurred to him: how what he'd done might affect the standing of everybody he was involved with. The whole community, practically, knew Garth's connection to him. "Oh, man, you should hear what they're saying about you. I mean, you probably don't want to, most of it's pretty awful. I know a lot of it can't be true, and I wanted to talk to you _so_ bad, but of course your phone's dead and I already told you I didn't know where you were and Ash says you haven't been answering e-mails, but now you called me, so - jeez, Sam, what _happened_?"

Sam opened his mouth. Not to offer an explanation; not yet. Garth had mentioned Ash without any grief in his voice or the past tense, and it'd set Sam's heart to soaring in his chest. So he needed to ask about that. Garth interrupted him before he could, though.

"But I guess that doesn't really matter. First thing's first." Sam heard him draw in a deep breath. "How are you? Are you okay? Do you need help?"

"I'm fine," Sam replied. "I'm not hurt, and I'm not being held hostage or anything." He looked down at his left leg, turning it one way and then the other. Even through the heavy jeans he was wearing, it was obvious the calf was whole, unlike it'd been the last time he'd seen Garth. "I'm...better than I've been in a long time, actually. A long, long time."

"Well, that's good to hear. I'm really glad about that," Garth said, then paused. He had to have a million questions for Sam. Maybe he was sorting through them and trying to decide which one to ask first. "Wh - "

"Garth, I'm sorry." Sam was the one to interrupt this time. "I'll explain everything. I promise. But I need to know." He swallowed. "I called the Roadhouse, and the phone..."

"Ooh. Right," Garth said, reflectively. "Yeah, you've really missed a lot, and that is a _long_ story, but I'm guessing that all you want right now's to know everybody's okay." Sam was so desperate he nodded fervently before remembering that that wouldn't do Garth a whole lot of good, over the phone. Luckily, he continued anyway. "Well, don't you worry. Everyone's fine. Ellen, Jo, Ash, everybody else there at the time."

"Oh, thank god." Sam let out a huge breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Of course he was curious about just what, exactly, had happened "at the time"...but right now, he was so relieved he was almost worried about passing out. All he could focus on was that he hadn't lost anyone.

"You know, actually, I'm with them right now," Garth commented, with the happy tone of someone who'd just unexpectedly remembered something important. Sam heard him walking and felt a tickle of foreboding in his stomach. "Hold on a second, let me put you on speakerphone!"

"Oh, no, please d - " Sam stopped abruptly when the echo of his own voice reached him, cringing. Maybe it'd be faster and easier to get four of the five out of the way at once. But one-on-one just seemed so much... _safer_ than this. At least he'd only have one person at a time damning him to Hell in that format, if worst came to worst.

There was silence. Such a long period of it that Sam would've wondered if the call had been dropped or Garth had accidentally hung up on him, if he hadn't been able to just barely detect breathing and the rustling of clothes. And Garth's voice, very faint but sounding encouraging, saying something like, "Well, go on, somebody's gotta say something."

Finally, what was unmistakably Ellen cautiously asked, "Sam?"

"Yeah...h-hi," he responded shakily. He was half afraid of what she was going to say and half relieved all over again to hear her voice. It wasn't like he didn't trust Garth, but hearing for himself was different. Even with the odd, scratchy quality that being on speakerphone lent her.

Ellen blew out a huge breath that Sam's phone translated as a lot of crackling. "Jesus Christ, you are just bound and determined to be the death of me, aren't you?"

"I - god, Ellen, I'm so sorry." Sam buried the fingers of his free hand in his hair. "I should've called months ago. I don't know why I didn't; I don't have a good excuse. I can't imagine what it's been like for you."

"It's been hell," Ellen said matter-of-factly. "Between you and Jo - " There was a soft snort in the background. Almost certainly Jo. "- and all the other shit that's come down on us recently...well, at least I knew where you were all the time, even if you weren't checking in, but I haven't even been able to say that, these past few months.

"We were pretty sure you weren't dead," someone interjected. Ash; definitely Ash. "Seeing as I've been managing to dig up security cam footage of you every week or so. You, and..."

"Dean Singer," Ellen stated, voice neutral. "Looking exactly like he did the last time I saw him, I might add. Twenty years ago. I'd assume that's because there's a Knight of Hell wearing him."

"Um...yeah, yes and no," Sam said, clearing his throat. "I can actually explain that. Trust me."

"I'm sure you've got a good excuse." Ellen was still perfectly neutral.

"I can think of one," Jo commented. "The vessel's gorgeous. Well done, Sam - just so long as you overlook the demon thing."

"Right...thanks, Jo." Despite himself, Sam blushed, remembering all the times he and Dean had kissed and embraced - and Dean had teasingly grabbed his ass just to watch him yelp and shy away - within full view of security cameras at gas stations and diners and motels. There was no way they thought the two of them were anything as innocent as traveling or hunting partners. They were; it was just that they were more, too.

"You didn't tell _me_ you'd seen him," Garth said, sounding hurt.

"Sorry, man," Ash replied. "Been a bit busy."

"What happened?" Sam jumped in, that reminding him that they, too, had been through something major. There was just so damn much going on in his head right now, and it was hard to keep it all straight. Shame, guilt, justification, concern, relief, excitement... "I know something went down - Garth told me it's a long story. I got really worried about you guys because the phone was down when I tried to call the Roadhouse."

There was a pause, and Sam wondered if he'd said something wrong.

"Right," Ellen said after a moment, sighing. "I'd bet you're not exactly in contact with a lot of hunters right now. Doesn't surprise me you don't know."

"What don't I know?" Sam repeated. He dropped his hand from his hair to the bedspread, fisting a handful of it and squeezing. The cotton batting inside was just about as lumpy as the mattress. He couldn't help being anxious. He wasn't all that high-strung naturally, but it wasn't like recent times had been restful for him.

"We lost the Roadhouse," Ellen said heavily. "There was a fire. Happened when we were gearing up for the evening rush, so we weren't too crowded. Burned fast and hot, but everybody got out in plenty of time, and the fire department showed up real quick, too, but there wasn't..." She trailed off, her voice having thickened at the end.

"Oh, my god." Sam slowly shook his head. "Oh, man, Ellen...I'm so sorry."

He had a special emotional connection to the Roadhouse. He'd lived there for a long time, recovering from the wound to his leg, and he was close to the proprietors. But he'd be willing to bet that he and the people on the other end of the phone weren't the only ones mourning the loss of Harvelle's Roadhouse. It was - had been - one of the few places meant specifically for hunters, and had been since Ellen and her late husband had first opened it. It was a safe haven, a place to pick up cases, partners, and information. No one had to hide what they did or what they knew there. Sam's books had been proudly on display right inside the door, taking up a couple of large cases with the prices (a couple bucks each, just to recoup production costs) written on the shelves in silver Sharpie.

It had been representative of their entire way of life, a monument to what they did, proof that they could always put aside their differences and come together against the darkness that filled the world.

And now it was gone. Burned to the ground.

"Nobody died," Ellen responded. "And we can always rebuild." Sam wasn't sure who she was trying to convince: him, or herself.

"Do you know what happened?" he asked her. He heard her draw in a breath that hitched slightly on the way.

"Fire investigator wasn't sure," she replied. "He seemed surprised by how fast it burned and how much damage it did, which makes me think something from our side of things happened there." She cleared her throat, and it sounded like she shifted her position. "So my best guess is demons. I know some of them have a way with fire, and it seems like there are more an more of them around every day. They're pushing west. And they'd have to be stupid not to target a gathering place for hunters."

"Any signs?" Sam asked. "Storms? Cattle mutilation? Sulfur?"

Ellen laughed. The sound was bleak. "The first two are everywhere these days. Your Knight might be able to tell you something about that." It probably wasn't meant as a jab (there was no bite behind it), but Sam winced anyway. "And the smell of smoke was too thick to tell about the third one, but my money's still on demons." A sigh. "Either them, or..."

"Or what?" Sam prompted when she didn't continue.

"Hunters." Jo spoke up. "Either demons, or hunters. Using charms or spells or maybe even some kind of creature. Like happened with your mom, Sam." Voice hushed, Ellen admonished, "Joanna."

Sam closed his eyes and bowed his head, but not because of the mention of his mother. She was the reason he'd been brought up as a hunter by his father, but he'd never known her beyond a couple pictures and the few stories his dad would tell when he got drunk enough. The fire that had killed her was twenty-six years ago this month - his age. It was something else about what Jo had said that'd hit him so hard.

"This was my fault," he realized quietly.

"Sam, no," Ellen said immediately, and he pictured her firmly shaking her head. "You had nothing to do with this, no matter who it was." Then, almost gently, "The world doesn't revolve around you."

"It has recently, though," Jo was quick to point out. "Our world, at least. He's all anybody's been talking about for months." She addressed Sam directly: "Before the fire, practically every hunter who came through our doors asked us about you and what happened. But we didn't know."

"Were they angry?" Sam asked quietly, picturing hulking, furious hunters confronting and threatening Ellen, Jo, and Ash. Who definitely knew how to defend themselves (Ellen, for one, kept a shotgun loaded with rock salt scattershot rounds under the bar and had never been afraid to use it on especially unruly patrons), but were all small and kind of frail in stature compare to the average hunter.

"Some," Jo admitted.

"A lot," Ash put in. "Most."

"I wouldn't say _most_." That was Garth, jumping in after having been silent for a few minutes. "A lot of the people who talked to me were just confused. They wanted to know the truth."

"Lotta rumors flying around," Ellen agreed. "But you don't usually get into this life - and survive - if you're stupid. There are plenty of people out there who aren't buying into the usual bullshit, like us." She paused, then sighed yet again. "But...yeah. There were still a lot who knew about our connection to you and assumed we were in on the whole goddamn thing. Demons, the east coast, Gordon dying, every hunter who's ever been killed, whatever. Who the hell knows."

"Not sure the life draws intellectuals so much as crackpots," Ash commented. "Y'know, conspiracy theorists." Jo mumbled something Sam didn't quite pick up, maybe "tape over your webcam," and Ash fiercely hissed, "You _know_ they'd be watching me if they could just figure out _how_."

"I'm sorry." Sam said it heavily, trying to deliver all of his guilt and regret in the two words. Because even if what'd happened to the Roadhouse hadn't been his fault, he had a whole truckload of other things to apologize for.

"We're all okay," Ellen replied. "Glad to hear you are, too."

That was probably a hint for Sam to start unloading the entire story of his current situation, but he still had a few more questions for them. "Where are you guys staying now?"

"My mother-in-law owns a motel," Ellen said. "One of those gimmicky ones - bunch of separate cabins. She gave us the biggest one."

"The honeymoon suite," Garth clarified, then stifled a giggle. Sam heard Ash snort.

"Oh," Sam said. "Well, that must be - "

"She hates us," Jo interrupted.

"Joanna Beth," Ellen snapped.

"What? She does!" Jo replied. "She's got no idea what to make of Ash, and she's made it pretty clear she blames you and me - mostly you - for..."

At that point, the Harvelles either dropped their voices or moved too far away from Garth's phone for Sam to hear them, because the argument became muffled and indistinct. At one point, Ellen distantly exclaimed, "How would you even know? You're never here!" but other than that, Sam couldn't catch what they were saying. He had a pretty good idea, though. It was the same old argument; he'd seen its beginnings when he was living at the Roadhouse and Jo had just been starting high school. It'd been tame back then, barely even a fight, but it'd gotten fiercer and fiercer as time passed. Sam had started involving himself as his leg healed, sometimes taking Ellen's side, sometimes Jo's, depending on who was making the better point. Right now, though, all he could do was sit on the bed and hold the phone to his ear in awkward silence, like he'd used to back when he'd very first been welcomed into their tiny family. He'd been away for too long, lost both the right and the knowledge to jump in.

Ash and Garth were quiet, too. Garth wasn't really a relative, either (come to think of it, why was he even there?), and Ash never got involved. He usually retreated to his room when Ellen and Jo started going at it, apparently more comfortable with the problems of computers than people.

Eventually, a door slammed, and it sounded like only one person returned to the phone. When Ellen spoke, Sam assumed Jo had stormed out of the room.

"Sorry about that, Sam." She sounded tired.

"It's fine." Sam cleared his throat, uncomfortable. "So things're still rough on that front, huh?"

"You could say that," Ellen confirmed. "Been getting worse since we got here, I think." Glass clinked. Was she drinking something? "She wants to hunt. Get out there and 'do some good,' as she puts it. You know how I feel about that."

"Yeah. I do."

"All other things aside, Sam, I'm glad you're back on the radar," Ellen told him. "I've been wishing I had you around to talk to Jo lately. She'd probably be more likely to listen to you than me, and you know what can happen with hunting. I don't mean to sound cold, but you're a living example."

"Uh," Sam said. "That's probably not a good idea."

"How d'you mean?"

There were any number of reasons why Sam didn't want to (couldn't, really) talk to Jo about hunting on Ellen's behalf. Some made him sound selfish, some were legitimate but would probably offend Ellen. So he just went with, "I'd come across as a hypocrite."

It took a moment for that to sink in. He pictured Ellen shaking her head as she then stated, "Hon, you can't be hunting. Not with your leg."

"Well," Ash started. Sam couldn't help imagining Garth and Ellen's heads turning towards him. "In the security footage, he ain't limping."

"He's not?" Garth asked incredulously at the same time Ellen, her tone accusative, said, "You told me that was some kinda illusion."

"I thought it was a shifter at first, too, but there's no eye flare," Ash replied defensively. "Sam? Why don't you clear it up for us?"

"I'm not limping," Sam said, after a nervous little swallow. "I don't limp anymore. It's healed - no scarring, no pain."

There was a short period of silence, which Sam determined to be shocked. He waited, a little afraid of what their reactions would be, especially once he went into more detail about what, exactly, had happened with his leg. Fingernails tapped against whatever surface Garth's phone was resting on, and Ellen finally asked, "How did that happen?"

That neutral tone was back in her voice. Sam recognized it from when he'd lived with her. She was mad, or expected to be mad, or wasn't sure how to feel, or didn't want to show what she was feeling. It could mean so many different things, but right now, Sam was pretty sure it was the second. She probably thought he' made some kind of deal. Delved into black magic. He would've liked to think she knew him well enough to be sure he'd never do anything like that, that the proper function of his left leg wasn't worth that much to him, but she wouldn't be able to think of any other explanation. Or maybe he just wasn't as moral in other people's eyes as he thought he was.

"Dea - the Knight," Sam replied, then tried to force humor he wasn't feeling into his voice as he added, "They can heal, apparently. Wish I'd known that when I wrote about them."

"And how'd you get it to do that for you?" Ellen asked him.

"Did you bind him somehow?" Garth eagerly butted in before Sam could reply. "Not sure how you'd go about binding a Knight of Hell, but I know you can sometimes make regular demons do stuff for you if you heap enough of the right kind of stuff on 'em - y'know, sigils, charms, spells. You can do that with other things, too."

"Uh, no. Definitely not." Sam had never tried to bind anything, least of all Dean, in the way that Garth was thinking of. He strongly discouraged it in his books and on his website, too. "Demons, angels, reapers, ghosts, spirits, gods...they could technically all be harnessed, through one method or another, and forced to obey a human. No binding was perfect, though, and the thing always wound up slipping its collar. Much to the dismay of whoever'd been controlling it. "He just...y'know, did it for me."

"Why?" Ellen asked flatly, clearly done with all this beating around the bush.

Sam inhaled. "What have you heard?" That would probably be easiest. He could fill in the blanks, and correct anything that was wrong. "About everything. Not just me and the Knight."

"That you turned traitor." Ellen was the first to answer, quickly followed by Garth and Ash.

"That you killed Gordon Walker. Which, even if you did, I mean...good riddance. Am I right?"

"That the Knight mind-controlled you with sex."

With that, the floodgates more or less opened. They took turns recounting rumors they'd heard, occasionally correcting each other's memories. Some hit close to home; most were outrageous. At least Sam could hear in everyone's voices that they discounted ninety-nine percent of what they were repeating, but it still hurt to hear. Sam forced himself to sit through all of the secondhand abuse, though. He needed to know what people were saying about him.

He waited for Jo to return to the room, but it was coming up on half an hour since she'd left and he still hadn't heard the door reopen. Maybe he should see if Ellen wanted to go check up on her. But given the eagerness with which Ellen was throwing herself into this distraction an the force with which Jo had slammed the door, he doubted either one of them would take kindly to that.

"Some people seem to think you're possessed."

"I heard you'd killed other hunters, but of course nobody could offer up any names."

"Apparently, you've been in bed with the demons for years. Literally."

There was more. An e-mail wit attached pictures of both Sam and Dean had been circulating; apparently, Ash had forwarded it to him, so he'd have to take a look at that. Few people had been around long enough to remember Dean Singer as a human, but those who'd recognized him had churned out all kinds of theories about his father Bobby's involvement - said he'd offered up his own son to the demons, pointed out his disappearance almost coincided with when shit had really started hitting the fan (it didn't. Not even close). Everyone must accept that Sam had taken the Knight as a lover, or vice versa, because the vocal minority had come barging in off the fringes to loudly draw connections between homosexuality, sin, and the forces of Hell. And on and on and on. Everyone knew, vaguely, what'd happened, and everyone had their own beliefs and opinions, because no one knew the full truth - though interest seemed to be slowly waning as time passed. It was a mess.

Actually, that was an understatement. It almost sounded like Sam had unwittingly sparked a civil war in the hunting community. Backing him, or at least not tearing him down, were most of the people who knew him personally. The ones who either outright rejected what they'd heard about him or were waiting patiently for his side of the story before making a judgement. On the other side was Gordon's crowd. The extremists, the zealots. The people who'd never seen the value in what Sam did, because he tried to find out more about monsters than just how to kill or hurt them.

There was a lot of tension between the two camps. To say the least. He just had to look at what'd happened to the Roadhouse for proof of that.

"Okay," Sam said carefully, once Ellen, Garth, and Ash's recounting had started to wind down. He laid back on the bed and rubbed his free hand over his eyes, grimacing and feeling overwhelmed. "First of all, at least one thing you've heard is true. Dean and I are..." He blushed, hard and involuntarily, as he tried to think of how best to put this. It would've been different if it'd just been Garth and Ash on the other end of the line, or even Jo. But Ellen was probably the last person he wanted to discuss his love life with. "...intimate."

That prompted a heavy sigh from Ellen, like Sam had just confirmed one of her worst fears.

"Sam, you've probably spent the most time with demons outta any of us," she stated. Her tone was nearly as careful as Sam had made his own. "Talking to them, I mean. Getting to know them. So I shouldn't have to tell you that they aren't capable of - of love. No matter what one tells you." She went on: "And calling it by the vessel's name is - "

"It's not the vessel's name, though," Sam interrupted, eager to make her understand. Especially because his relationship with Dean wasn't the important part. What'd really happened with Gordon, what Dean was going to help Sam do and how it would make life better for them all...that was what they needed to know. "I mean, it is, but it's the name off the soul inside, too. It's - his. They're the same."

"Okay, I'm confused," Garth announced.

"The Knight is Dean Singer," Sam explained, as simply as he could. "He found and repaired his original body after leaving the Pit. Ellen, you told me he disappeared back in eighty-seven, the last time we talked. He was murdered then and dragged to Hell, and they carved up his soul, but something must've gone wrong with the process. He's not...I don't think he counts as a full-fledged demon. He's got a lot of his original memories." He had even before Sam had pushed him into giving that memory-boosting spell a try. "And he's retained all of his human emotions. More or less. There are differences, but he's definitely not a psychopath. Not like most demons."

Ellen, of course, asked the obvious question: "How do you know?"

Sam bit the inside of his lower lip. Now he was sort of wishing he had asked Dean to stay and talk to them, like he'd reluctantly offered to. He was sure he'd be better at explaining who he was and how he felt than Sam would. But he wasn't here and Sam had no idea how to add him to his current call, or whatever. He was on his own.

He knew that talking about how Dean constantly made sure he was fed, watered, and well-rested, or what he said after sex, or how often he told him he loved him wouldn't be likely to convince them. They hadn't lived with him like Sam had, so they'd figure that he could say whatever the hell he wanted without having to mean a word of it. He'd have to use a more concrete example.

"Dean was hunted down and killed by demons because of what he was trying to do back then," Sam said, then swallowed. "Which was trying to close the Gates of Hell. Shut everything, all of them, back where they belong - forever. And he told me how it's done. Three Trials, all of which he's going to help me do...and which is also the whole reason he healed my leg for me."

There was silence for a long time, and Sam couldn't help feeling a little gratified by it. He knew that no one (with the exception of Dean, of course) had ever heard of anything like this, or even considered it. He knew he hadn't. It was a total game-changer. It would put an end to crossroads deals, for one thing, and even if it didn't automatically suck all the demons who were topside back into Hell when the Gates closed, it would at least prevent new ones from leaving and human souls from being claimed or stolen. The remaining demons could be hunted like normal. Since there'd be no getting back out of Hell, exorcising them would be as good as killing them.

Sam remembered his own shock when Dean told him. His disbelief. And then his excitement when he considered the fact that a world without demons, without Hell, might be possible. It was technically just one breed of monster - or a small handful, if you considered the different castes of demons, including hellhounds, to be their own creatures. But they were arguably some of the worst. Unlike most things, they didn't killed or ruined lives for fun, not food...and they just kept on coming back. Sam's knife and the few, highly-treasured angel blades the community had in its collective possession had made things a little better. But Hell, with the temptation of its deals constantly hanging over everyone's heads, just kept on churning out more demons.

"Um...Sam..." Garth had that special note in his voice that meant he knew what he wanted to say might wind up hurting somebody's feelings, but he really wanted to avoid that. "I know I don't have quite as much experience as some other people, but it seems to me that, when something seems too good to be true, it usually is."

"I know - trust me, I get that," Sam agreed, sitting back up. "And I know how this sounds. But it's not like it's a magic bullet. Two of the Trials are impossible unless you've got special knowledge and connections, and all three are - god, just _grueling_. Really hard, really dangerous." He licked his lips. "That's why I'm gonna do a hunt or two before I get started. Hopefully lower the chance I'll get myself killed."

"Definitely not a bad idea, but...Sam, listen," Ellen said, earnestly. "I understand how you feel. How bad you want this, how good it'd be for all of us. And twenty-six is more than old enough for you to be thinking with your head rather than your heart or any other parts lower than that, so please believe me when I say I'm not questioning your...relationship." He noticed her hesitation over that last word. Almost definitely because of Dean's species. "But this is a demon. They're great actors, manipulative sons of bitches. They get off on hurt and chaos and destruction. And this one's a Knight of Hell - even though we all figured they were extinct, you did research on them. Wrote about them in your book."

"Which was smart," Garth chimed in, followed by something that a loud crackle on the line mostly obscured but which was probably, "Remember the whole vampire mess?"

"In that book, you say Knights are real heavy hitters," Ellen went on, apparently just ignoring Garth. "And that, above all, they're loyal. To their Prince or Lord, and to Hell in general."

Sam laughed. He couldn't help it.

"That's not something you have to worry about with Dean," he assured Ellen, shaking his head even though none of them would be able to see him doing it. "Hell hates him as much as any of us. More, probably, because he's a traitor. He's with me, he's killed demons they've sent to retrieve him, he hasn't checked in for months. He's gone off the reservation. His...Lord..." Sam hesitated. He really didn't know very much about this himself, and wasn't sure how much he could share with everybody else without violating Dean's privacy. Not that he'd probably ever find out what Sam told them. "I think its name is Alastair, but it's kinda weird, he almost makes it sound like he used to be shared around with another Lord and maybe a Prince, too. Lilith and Azazel." He shook his head again. "Anyway. My point is he hates all of them. Can't hardly talk about them, even."

"So you trust him," Ash summed up.

"Yes," Sam replied. It was easy because it was true.

"If your Knight really is Dean Singer..." Ellen started, then trailed off. "Well. When I knew him, he was somebody you could usually put your trust in. Good hunter. Magnet for trouble, though - didn't help he liked to go looking for it. I could definitely see him putting his own ass on the line to close the Gates of Hell."

"You said he was excited about something right before he disappeared," Sam prompted.

"That could've been it," Ellen agreed. "He'd - mellowed out some, too. Not sleeping around so much. Thought he might've finally found somebody he wanted to be exclusive with." A pause. "Sorry, Sam."

"You don't have to be," Sam replied. "Whatever it was, it's, uh... _clearly_ over now." Had that been the Prophet? The one who'd been able to read a Word of God (Sam still really wanted to know where, exactly, Dean had gotten one of those) and tell him about the Trials in the first place? He'd be in his forties by now, at least. If he wasn't dead.

"That was when he was human, though," Ellen said. "He hasn't hurt you, has he, Sam?"

"Uh, no. Exactly the opposite. I mean, look at my leg." Sam rubbed the bridge of his nose with the hand he wasn't using to hold the phone to his ear. He wasn't offended by the question. Considering it'd been one of Dean's original concerns, too. "He seemed really worried he might in the beginning, but that's more or less tapered off recently."

"Mm," Ellen said. Sam sighed.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know it's a lot, asking you guys to trust somebody you've basically never met. A _demon_ you've never met." He couldn't just ask them to take his word for it. Not after he'd let them worry about him all summer. "I really do trust him, though. And it's not like he told me he loved me once and I just let him out of his cell. I...it took a while, a lot of things happened, he - "

"Then how 'bout you tell us what happened?" Ellen interrupted patiently. "Everything. Help us understand." Then, bleakly, "Not like we've got anything better to do."

"Okay...I, uh..." Sam trailed off, overwhelmed by just how much he'd have to relate. It'd need to be heavily edited, too, since he didn't feel like sharing the details of the first few times he'd gone to bed with Dean with anyone. Especially not Ellen. He took a moment to gather his thoughts.

Speaking of Ellen, she took Sam's silence as an opportunity to address Garth. She must have turned away from the phone to talk to him, because her voice was quiet, but Sam heard her anyway. "Garth, you wanna go run and grab Jo real quick? It'll save Sam the trouble of repeating himself, since I know she'll wanna hear the whole story."

"Sure thing." Footsteps receded into the distance, and a door again opened and shut.

"So is he just...there all the time?" Sam asked, once he was reasonably sure Garth was out of earshot.

"Off and on," Ellen replied. "He's been a real big help. One of the first people to show up after the fire, too. Sweet kid."

Sam was about to agree wholeheartedly with that statement when Ash broke in: "I'm pretty sure most of it's 'cause he's carrying a torch for Jo."

"Oh," Sam said, trying to stifle his initial kneejerk reaction to that news. It wasn't a positive one. "Uh..."

"Yeah," Ash agreed. "That ain't going nowhere. 'Specially not if you've got anything to say about it, huh?" That last sentence was probably directed towards Ellen, who just grunted in response.

Sam really would've liked to know more about all of that. He'd been out of the loop of the Harvelles' day-to-day lives for so long, hadn't even seen them face-to-face in years, and it was just super weird to think of anybody being interested in Jo, let alone Garth. He couldn't help wondering if Ash thought she'd picked up on it or not. Plus, once again, it wasn't his business and he didn't have a right to know, but he was curious about why Ellen didn't approve, too. He knew she wasn't too keen on the idea of Jo winding up with a hunter. He'd been able to pick up on that much while living with them; Ellen's husband had been gone for more than a decade, and she was still grieving for him. Of course she didn't want that kind of pain for Jo. But Garth didn't fit anybody's definition of the average hunter.

He didn't even have time to think of a question, though, before the door opened again and Jo and Garth presumably returned. Two sets of footsteps crossed the floor, and the springs of a couch squeaked loudly as somebody flung themselves down onto it. Clearly, Jo was still upset about her earlier argument with her mother.

"Okay, Sam," Ellen said, voice neutral once again. "Go right ahead. Soon as you're ready."

"Right." Sam let out a long, slow breath. "Guess I might as well start with when Gordon first brought Dean up to me."

It was slow going. Sam had always been much better at putting stories down on paper than he was at telling them out loud, which was one of many reasons he kept a journal. He actually went and dug his current one out of his backpack after about twenty minutes of stumbling over major events and forgetting important details, because he could definitely use all the help he could get. Even balancing the journal on his knee and flipping through it with his free hand, he kept having to backtrack because he'd skipped over something that they all definitely needed to know.

Plus, he was having to edit on the fly. Take out all the sex and even pare down all the kisses and touches, because he was sure they didn't want to hear about it and he really didn't want to tell them. He elected to leave out a lot of the times Dean had threatened and/or actually hurt him, too. Since he was trying to convince them that Dean was trustworthy, that wouldn't exactly help his cause.

As hard as Sam was making this on himself, it wasn't like Garth, Ash, or the Harvelles were going easy on him, either. They were anything but a passive audience. They had all kinds of questions, they challenged his memory of certain events (never mind the fact that they hadn't actually been there), and interrupted him to give their own opinions or advice. Sam had forgotten that practically every important conversation at the Roadhouse had been like this. The greater the number of people involved, the worse it was.

In other words, relating what'd happened took forever and was a total pain in the ass. But it felt good anyway, even the parts that hurt to remember, like losing Vaughn and killing Gordon. Not only was he finally talking about all this, but he was doing it with family. People who, for all their questions, really did seem to understand.

Sam's throat was dry and his jaw ached by the time he got to what he'd been up to since leaving his cabin. His ear hurt, too, where he'd been holding the phone against it for the past couple of hours. Maybe it would've been more comfortable to use the room's phone (which was shaped like a mallard - was the wing the handset, or the head?), but it was too late for that now. He hear the rumble of an engine outside as he got up to get himself a much-needed drink of water.

"Oh," Sam said, switching the phone to his other ear. Which he probably should have done much earlier. "Dean's back. Hope the interviews went okay." He'd told them what he was doing, although not how nervous he'd been about it. "Uh...I really don't think there's much else I can tell you guys, so that was good timing. It's mostly just been a lot of training up 'til now." He filled a plastic cup, which matched the pillows on the bed, from the tap in the kitchenette. "Unless you'd like to talk to him?"

"That's all right." Ellen answered for all of them, and it was probably for the best, seeing as Dean clearly hadn't wanted to talk to them when Sam had asked him earlier. Raising the cup to his mouth to drain it in a few deep gulps, Sam turned halfway when the lock clicked and the door opened. Dean came in, jacket unbuttoned, tie untucked, and appearance just generally rumpled. He looked tired and irritated as he opened his mouth to say something, but he must have noticed that Sam was still on the phone, because he closed it again just as quickly. He shut the door and went to sit on the bed. Sam set the cup back on the counter.

"I'd kind of like to," Garth mumbled.

"We'd better let you go," Ellen said. Sam recognized the voice she used there because she'd turned it on him all the time in the past: it meant her word was law and that anybody who wanted to argue (usually him, sometimes Jo) was in for a rough day. "Really appreciate you checking, though, Sam. And filling in all the blanks...I gotta say, your Knight at least sounds like a stand-up guy. For a demon." Sam smiled, triumphant and relieved. "Good luck with your hunt - and...everything that's gonna come after." She paused, and Sam thought he heard her swallow. "We're all counting on you, so here's hoping you don't go AWOL for another four or five months after this."

"Fingers crossed, but, uh, no promises," Sam said with a faint smirk, then more seriously added, "I don't plan on it, Ellen. I'll try to call every week or two, at least."

"You'd better," Ellen replied. "Elsewise we'll track you down, now that Ash has your phone number."

Sam wanted to ask if Ash had managed to rescue any of his gear from the fire, but if he hadn't, he didn't want to reopen old wounds. "I'm so sorry about what happened to the Roadhouse. But I can't even tell you how happy I am that you're all okay."

"Well, us, too," Jo said. She'd been pretty quiet while he was talking, so it was a relief to hear her voice.

"We're all pretty glad to know you're alive, too," Garth said. "Not to mention working on our demon problem. And honeymooning with your soul mate!" Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, but didn't even bother correcting him.

"Be sure and call if you need anything. Talk to you soon." Somebody probably reached for the phone to end the call after that, but before they could cut it off, something jumped into Sam's mind.

"Wait," he blurted, then swallowed, suddenly worried about the answer to the question he wanted to ask. Even though he assumed that somebody would've already told him if it were really bad. "How's Charlie?"

"Oh, she's just fine, don't worry." Garth answered before anybody else could, and Sam could practically hear him waving a hand. "Working a new case, last I heard. Involving, um, exotic dancers, so that should be fun. You should really call her, too. She's been just as worried as us." Sam was about to promise to do so, just as soon as he rested his vocal cords some, but Garth remembered something before he could get the words out. "Buuut her main phones have been acting up lately. Dropping calls and stuff. She was going to get some new ones, so you might want to wait."

"Okay..." Sam paused. "So will you tell me her new numbers as soon as you get them?"

"Of course!" Garth responded immediately. "Silly."

"Well, thank you." There was another round of goodbyes, a couple of last-minute questions that nobody had had before, an more threats/promises to find him themselves if he didn't call. Then Sam was finally able to hang up.

"Hoo, boy," Dean commented as Sam lowered the phone from his ear and hit the button that would end the call. "Whichever one that was, they were sure long-winded, huh?"

"It was actually four of the five at once." Sam dropped the phone on one of the bedside tables, then went to sit beside Dean, the same position they'd been in earlier. He glanced at him just in time to see him grimace.

"Ouch. How'd that go?"

"Not anywhere near as bad as I thought it would," Sam admitted, then offered Dean a smile. "You were right."

"Usually am," Dean agreed. "What about this time?"

"They didn't hate me for what happened with Gordon," Sam replied. "Or you. Or not calling them all summer. Sure, they were worried, and a little mad, and it was kinda awkward at first, but...they listened. And once I finished explaining, I'm pretty sure they believed me."

"About what?"

Sam laid back on the bed and stretched, arching his back until his spine popped - an unfortunate side effect of having spent seven hours in a car manufactured before ergonomics were a thing. He folded his arms behind his head as a makeshift pillow when he was done. "You. That you're not hurting me or controlling me somehow. And closing the Gates of Hell."

Dean twisted in order to look down at Sam, eyebrows drawing in towards each other. "You told them about that?"

"Of course I did." Sam lifted his head slightly. "I figured you and me could probably use all the allies we can possibly get. Plus, like I said earlier, this is one of those things they deserve to know. I've kept enough from them since the last time they heard from me." He quirked an eyebrow, not really expecting trouble. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing." Dean laid down next to Sam, on his side so that he could look at him. Sam turned his head to return the favor, fighting back a faint smile as Dean brushed his hair away from his face (with his actual, physical hand, for once), being meticulous about every strand. "Might shock you to learn this, but I do remember what it was like to have a family. Granted, I usually followed the 'tell 'em as little as possible for their own good' model. Not that it worked all that well."

His eyes darkened slightly. In the normal, emotional way, not the demonic way. Sam knew he had to be thinking of his father, despite the fact that Bobby had disappeared nearly twenty years after Dean himself had. So Sam said, "If it makes any difference, I did follow that model when it came to all the times we've screwed."

Dean tried to stifle the loud, raucous laugh that that triggered, rolling over onto his other side, and it almost sounded like he was choking. Sam smirked. When he recovered, he asked, "How 'bout all the times we blew each other?"

"Well, obviously, _those_ , I described in detail," Sam replied. "To my, uh...mother figure, surrogate siblings, and _painfully_ innocent best friend."

There was more laughter from Dean, which came out sounding more like snorting. When he finished, he was quiet for a while, then moved onto his back and unexpectedly asked, "So they're okay with you trying to close the Gates, huh?"

Sam's first instinct was to petulantly point out that he was an adult. He didn't go with it. "Far as I could tell. It might've been different, but I told them I was doing a practice hunt or two first. And they knew what you did to my leg." He lifted it a little to punctuate the statement. "They're still not totally sold on it working, but if it does, it'll solve a major problem for just about everybody."

"Well, that's good," Dean commented. He folded his hands on his stomach. "You're definitely gonna have to call 'em more often from now on."

"I said once a week, at least. That shouldn't be too hard to keep up." Sam couldn't see much of Dean's face over his own elbow.

"You said you knocked four of five outta the park at once," Dean said. "How 'bout the last one?"

"She's having phone trouble, so I'm gonna have to wait," Sam replied, unfolding his arms, shifting onto his side, and supporting his head with one hand so he could look down at Dean. The bed squealed, apparently not happy with all that movement. He was dreading the noises it might make if they had sex on top of it. "And I'm pretty sure that _you're_ stalling. Why don't you tell me how interviewing potential witnesses went?" Even if it'd gone well, it must've been rough: Dean looked like figurative hell.

Dean shut his eyes and groaned loudly. Sam coaxed, "C'mon, you looked pretty excited to tell me when you first came in."

"Yeah, but you did so good with your thing, and I..." Dean trailed off, rubbing a hand over his face and keeping his eyes closed.

"It can't be that bad."

"Guess it wasn't." Dean left his hand on the side of his face and cracked open the eye that wasn't covered. "I didn't kill anybody. Or flash my eyes, or teleport, or move anything with my mind." The green eye rolled up as he paused and considered. "I _did_ threaten to twist off the cemetery caretaker's fingers, but he was being a dick to me, and c'mon. Who the hell's drunk at one in the afternoon?"

"I'm gonna assume you found him in a bar, so...was it crowded?" Sam asked. It could've been worse, so he didn't think a slap on the wrist was in order.

"One in the afternoon," Dean repeated. "Nobody heard me, don't worry. And it was useless, anyway. Even once I scared him sober, he couldn't tell me anything. Hasn't seen anything. Which might be because he's trashed all the time, but nothing we can do about that."

Sam, having had his own experiences with chronic alcoholism, grunted in agreement, then asked, "How about everyone else?"

"They didn't give me much, either," Dean replied. "Funeral home's not directly involved with the cemetery, but they are pissed 'cause the graverobbing's hurting business. And the cops are frustrated 'cause people keep calling the sheriff, but they never find anything."

"What kind of calls have they been getting?" Sam asked patiently. Dean occasionally fell into the habit of talking like Sam could at least partially read his mind. It made him wonder how demons communicated when they were among their own kind and how much of it was telepathic or some sort of hive-mind thing, but it somehow never seemed appropriate to ask.

"Well, the open graves, obviously," Dean said. "And stuff going on at night. They used to think it was kids breaking in to drink and bone, even staked the place out a few times, but kids don't tend to dig up and steal a couple dozen corpses." He smirked with the visible half of his mouth. "Not human kids, at least."

"Yeah, couple dozen's a lot even for a really grisly prank," Sam agreed. He noticed Dean's smirk, assumed it was because he'd used a weird word, and didn't deign to comment on it. "Anything else?"

"Yep," Dean replied, finally taking his hand away and nodding as best he could while laying down. "Intruders in the graveyard. Intruders all witnesses agree should be dead and gone."

"Okay. So it's _definitely_ ghouls," Sam stated, privately wondering why Dean hadn't just led with that part. "Could be ghosts, but they wouldn't be snatching bodies. Did you go and talk to the people who saw these, uh, intruders?"

Dean glared up at him, almost balefully. Sam guessed that that was a no. He was about to ask him what his problem was when Dean said, "Getting any info at all outta these people is like pulling teeth. It's always the same in small towns. And these're professionals, elected officials - civvies are gonna be even worse." He put a forearm over his eyes. "Pretending to be human, or at least not to be my full self, ain't much easier."

"Want me to do them?" Sam asked, pulling himself back up into a sitting position. He folded his legs and put his hands on his knees, still looking down at Dean. "I mean, it'd only be fair. I could put the suit on and slick my hair back..." Because a ponytail was really more practical than professional. "...and go out later today or tomorrow."

"You really think they're gonna be able to tell us much we don't know already?" Dean removed his arm. Sam shrugged.

"It'd be nice to get a rough idea of the numbers."

"I'd bet it's at least one whole mischief."

Sam squinted at Dean, who just grinned back. After a while, though, he let it go. He patted Sam's leg before sitting up himself.

"We'll go together," he said. "We're partners, after all. This evening, everybody'll be home from work, so we'll leave then." He looked away, running the tip of his tongue absentmindedly along his plump, pink bottom lip. Watching that ignited a sudden, magma-hot need in the pit of Sam's belly and at the base of his spine, like a banked fire bursting back to life with a gust of wind. "That'll give us some downtime. You and me both did good today. We deserve a break."

"A break from acting human?" Sam asked.

Dean looked at him, then smirked, obviously having either seen or felt his arousal - although he didn't seem to be as good at picking up on that feeling as he was most others. Sam was already leaning forward to pull his suit jacket off him as he allowed, "Maybe not too much of one."


	5. Chapter 5

**Guess what? I'm looking for an editor! Or two, or three, since different points of view are always a good thing.**

 **You'll get to:**

 *** Read new chapters and pieces ahead of everyone else**

 *** Correct spelling errors**

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* * *

 _It's just always such a pain in the ass. Every single time. I understand they're green, and yeah, I remember being new to the game, like Bobby is always riding me about. But I was around twelve on my first hunt, and I don't remember being a total moron. These idiots don't have the excuse of being kids, and common sense doesn't have anything to do with hunting experience._

 _You know I like hunting with partners but I know I'd rather be solo than working a case with one of these two hundred pound babies hanging off me the whole time. Or, God forbid, more than one. Why the hell do so many people feel the need to drag their whole goddamn bowling league or whatever into the life with them? This is a lifelong commitment, and it's about saving people and stamping out evil. You aren't going to a concert. Don't bring your friends._

 _They're stupid, they're clumsy, and they got no idea what they're doing. You'd think most of them had never held a gun before, or watched a single horror movie. Their technique's all wrong. They don't ask witnesses the right questions. When it's the perfect time to shoot or stab or whatever, they freeze up. Can't even count how many times baby hunters have almost gotten me killed. Or actually gotten their genius friends killed. Then it's my fault, of course._

 _Look. New hunters. The only reason I'm in your area in the first place is to clean up your mess. I'm not here to teach you - I don't have the time. I'm not here to hold your hand while you cry about your buddy getting eaten 'cause you just couldn't handle killing something, even a monster. And I'm definitely not here to babysit you. That's not my job._

 _-Personal journal of Dean Singer, c. 1982_

* * *

Sam didn't like suits. Of course, he hadn't had to wear one for the better part of a decade, so he'd more or less forgotten just how much he disliked them. He remembered, though, when he put one on and left the motel room with Dean around five o'clock, so they could make the rounds and interview civilian witnesses.

A suit was one of the things Dean had insisted he get before they started hunting, along with a core group of fake IDs. Sam got it: people were a hell of a lot more likely to take you seriously when you were in a jacket and tie. That was why real FBI agents did it.

But, _jeez_ , were they ever uncomfortable. Sam's fit him okay; it'd come off a rack, so it wasn't like it was tailored or anything, but at least his wrists and ankles were covered. The fabric was cheap, though (the rack had been at Kohl's, not an Armani store. Neither he nor Dean had seen the point in dropping fifteen hundred dollars on suits they were probably going to get blood on, and they'd gotten what they paid for). Restrictive. The seams pulled like the stitches were going to pop when he moved his arms, and the jacket went tight across his upper back. The trousers dug painful bands into his thighs where they met his hips whenever he sat. It wasn't nearly as forgiving of movement as denim. And he got that you shouldn't be able to run a marathon in a suit, but seriously. He ought to at least be able to sit comfortably.

Plus, there was a sharp, stabbing pain in his armpit the entire time they were doing interviews. And he couldn't exactly go digging for the source while asking townsfolk about mysterious figures in the graveyard. He was trying to project an air of professionalism, and they were already unimpressed by his FBI badge. So it wasn't until Sam finally, gladly got to take his suit off, back in the room, that he found out it was a straight pin in his white button down.

"I thought you washed these," he said to Dean, massaging his armpit with one hand and holding the pin in the other. He didn't think he was bleeding, but he was definitely sore.

"I did," Dean replied, so easily that Sam couldn't challenge him on it. "Hey." His jacket was open, and he loosened his tie as he flashed a smile at Sam. "Wanna see a trick?"

"Uh..." Sam was immediately wary as he flicked the pin into the room's wastebasket. "I don't know. Do I?"

"You'll like this," Dean assured him, and then teleported out of his clothes. All of them, including his boxers. The suit hung in the air for half a second, then after Sam blinked, it'd crumpled softly to the floor. Dean stood in front of him, hands spread, eyebrows bouncing, a smirk on his face. Sam couldn't help laughing, even though the suit, the pin, and the impending graveyard trek had him feeling a little prickly.

"Okay," he agreed. "That's pretty good."

"'Pretty good'?" Dean parroted, exaggeratedly offended. "D'you have any idea how much _practice_ it takes to do that? And control? You gotta have a complete grasp of your vessel, and know exactly where it ends. You're not gonna see garden-variety blackeyes using teleportation to get naked."

Sam stepped on the back of one dress shoe, then the other, slipping both of his feet out of them as he walked over to his backpack where it was leaning up against the foot of the bed. When he reached it, he squinted at Dean, lifting it onto the bed and unzipping the largest compartment.

"Was that some kind of demon racial slur?" he asked him.

"What?"

Sam let it go, shaking his head. "Never mind." He began digging through his backpack, looking for the sturdiest pair of jeans he had. He hoped that he'd brought them with him - this wasn't all his clothes. Some had been abandoned at Bobby's old place when Dean had made him pick and choose because they didn't have room for everything, even though Sam wasn't exactly a clotheshorse. Just another of the million small inconveniences of life on the road. Dean had helped him neatly fold everything he'd decided to leave behind and put it all away in the chest of drawers in the room that'd belonged to both of them, at separate times. It'd even been his idea. Sam knew, though, that they'd never be coming back for them. Hell probably knew they were both connected to that place. It wouldn't be safe.

Sam was standing in his sock feet, shirtless, only his belt and slacks still on as he rooted through his tightly-folded clothes. He was proud of himself for not jumping when Dean's hands, cold, came down on either side of his waist. He hadn't heard him walk across the crunchy green carpet, so he must've teleported again.

"Y'know, it might not be totally accurate to call it teleporting," Sam commented, ignoring that Dean was touching him and thinking out loud. "You don't leave an empty space behind, because there's no thunderclap. And you don't displace any air when you arrive." He finally found the jeans that he was looking for, taking the compact roll of them out and setting it aside. "So it's more like you're switching places with the air in the spot you want to go."

Dean groaned loudly and let go of him, shoving him slightly as he did so. "God, you are such a _nerd_."

Sam grinned at him as he went to his duffel bag, which was sitting on the table. "I need to edit my demon book."

"I can't believe I allowed you inside my body," Dean stated, eyeing Sam disgustedly as he tugged out a pair of underwear. The forest green ones - Sam liked those. He'd bought them for him. "You killed my boner. Hope you're happy."

"You didn't even have a boner." It wasn't like it was easy to miss. "And we had sex, like..." Sam glanced at the clock. It had game birds on it rather than numbers (and the arms were hunting rifles - cute), so it took him a second to decode it. "...four hours ago."

"Yeah, well." Dean stepped into the boxer briefs, pulling them up around his hips. "I could've used another round." He gave Sam a sidelong glance, finally looking serious.

Sam took a moment to undo his belt and pull his pants off, swapping them out for his jeans. He left them crumpled on the floor, just like he had with the rest of his suit, because he just didn't feel like dealing with it right now. As he was doing up his zipper, he glanced from it to Dean, asking him, "Are you nervous?"

"Yeah." Sam hadn't expected him to admit it so easily; he was surprised.

"Well, don't be." He dove back into his backpack, looking for shirts now. "It's just ghouls. They die easy, and they're not all that much stronger or smarter than us." He pulled a T-shirt free, dropped it on the bed. "We might not even need to kill the whole mischief. Just thin the herd, or take out the problem members...hey, I might actually get to go to bed tonight." He could literally feel himself brightening at that realization.

"I'm not worried about that," Dean replied. "I could clear ghouls out of a graveyard in my sleep. Even though I don't sleep." Sam glanced over at him to see that he was almost dressed. "I'm worried about you."

"Oh. Wow." Sam raised both eyebrows, not quite offended but faking that he was. "That's not insulting at all."

"You know I don't mean it like that," Dean complained. "I'm worried about you getting hurt, not screwing up."

"I've had a lot of practice with you," Sam pointed out. "I know I can defend myself." That was true, but it didn't mean that he wasn't scared. "Plus, I did have close to a solid decade of hunting before...y'know. All that's been coming back to me." He was still digging through his backpack, wishing he'd taken more time to organize everything after their last laundry day rather than just folding it and then shoving it all in, but now he looked up at Dean and smiled. "And I don't think I can get much safer than having a Knight of Hell as my own personal bodyguard."

"You shouldn't depend on me to protect you," Dean warned. "I mean, trust me, I'm gonna do my damnedest, but there are gonna be times where we'll have to split up."

"I know that," Sam said, feeling, for about the billionth time, like Dean was ignoring the fact he used to be a hunter. Although he really hoped they didn't have to split up tonight. "And I'm not. We're partners, I get that, and I've got your back just as much as you've got mine." He'd definitely try, at least, despite the vast gulf between their abilities. "I can kill my own monsters."

"So you're not anxious about this at all?" Dean asked. He'd sunk down in one of the chairs next to the table, dug a pair of socks out of his duffel bag, and summoned his boots to him from across the room.

"No," Sam lied. He knew it was useless with Dean. He lied anyway.

"All right, then." Pulling on his socks, Dean laughed. "God, Sammy. You're making me feel like an overprotective parent."

Sam resisted the urge to dryly comment that that would've killed _his_ boner, if he'd had one. "I gotta start sometime."

"You're right," Dean agreed. "At least hunting'll be easier than those interviews we just did."

Sam laughed, which he was pretty sure had been Dean's goal every time he'd done something goofy tonight: to help him relax. "Right? The ghouls probably aren't gonna _pet_ their damn shotguns the whole time we're talking to them."

"What was that guy's problem, anyway? Did he just keep that thing next to the door to intimidate visitors, or what?"

"I don't even...it's Montana. I don't know."

They were quiet for a little bit as they both finished getting dressed. Sam's bare chest was getting cold, so he gave up searching his backpack for the moment and just pulled the T-shirt on.

"Think I should go wash my hair real quick?" he asked Dean. He'd forgotten he had hardened gel in it, slicking it back, until he accidentally touched it while putting on his shirt. "Like, just in the sink. To get the gunk out."

"No," Dean said, shaking his head as he rocked himself up onto his feet. "Leave it. It'll be harder for them to grab onto it that way."

"All right." Sam guessed that was a good enough reason for him to put up with it for the duration of the hunt. Though, honestly, he hated gel as much as he did suits.

"Dress in layers," Dean advised him, patting his shoulder as he walked past him on his way to the door. "So that - "

"Yeah, I know," Sam interrupted, putting a hand into his backpack again and, just by chance, finding the thing he'd been looking for earlier: a flannel. He pulled it out and shook it free of the tight roll that it'd been packed into. "It's like armor."

"Well, yeah," Dean agreed. "But also, it's November in Montana and we're gonna be spending the night in a graveyard. Don't want all your squishy bits to freeze."

"Okay." Sam shrugged into the flannel, then a jacket as Dean went out to the car. He returned with a machete, which he handed to Sam so he could see his decapitation swing. He'd already practiced it enough to make his shoulder sore, back when they'd still been training rather than actively hunting, but he figured that this was just one last thing to satisfy Dean. So he humored him. And he must've done okay, because after he'd mimed taking a ghoul's head off a couple times, Dean decided they could go.

"You know the best place to do a ghoul hunt?" Dean asked as they drove out to the cemetery.

"No," Sam admitted, after thinking about it for a second.

"New Orleans," Dean told him. "All the mausoleums and crypts and family vaults - they nest in there. And those places are easy for us to go into. Easier than the tunnels they dig themselves, at least...which is what we're gonna be dealing with here." He glanced at Sam, who sighed through his nose.

"Crap," he said. "I didn't even think about the tunnels." He shrugged at Dean, who was focused on parking. Down by the canal that ran past the cemetery rather than the parking lot, so they wouldn't be noticed. "Fingers crossed that they're prowling around on the surface tonight."

"Welp, they've been going into the graves from above." Dean yanked the keys out of the ignition. "Maybe we'll get lucky."

They climbed out of the car, each with a machete in his hand. It'd been years since Sam had held one (outside of training with Dean), and it almost felt too light to him. He glanced up at the sky as Dean locked the car. It was a new moon, and he wished that they could've done this on a brighter night. He was about to say that, but when he looked over at Dean, he found him standing ramrod-straight and staring into the cemetery.

"What is it?" he asked him.

"I heard something," Dean replied.

"What?"

"C'mon," Dean said, leaving the car and heading for the fence like Sam hadn't asked a question. "Let's go."

Sam rolled his eyes, but he couldn't really do anything but follow him. They went up the road and through the trees, to the fence. Chain link, rather than the more standard wrought iron. Dean didn't slow down at all when they reached it, just grabbed Sam's free hand and teleported past it without even breaking his stride. Sam, though, stumbled, thrown off. That allowed Dean, who'd picked up the speed to a quick lope, to get a decent head start on him.

Sam did his best to catch up, but couldn't quite manage it. His night vision wasn't anywhere near as good as Dean's, so he couldn't match his pace without tripping over every headstone in the damn place. The ones that laid flat against the ground especially were a pain in his ass. And just because all that wasn't hard enough on its own, the cemetery had been laid out over several hills, and they were currently going up one of them.

Sam had a flashlight in his back pocket that he could've taken out and turned on. He also could have yelled at Dean to wait up. If he'd heard ghouls, though, he didn't want to do either for fear of tipping them off.

Dean slowed some as he came close to the top of the hill, and Sam was finally able to catch up with him. Now he could hear things, too: laughter, voices, the popping and ringing of aluminum cans being crumpled. And there was an orange glow coming up as they crested the hill, firelight flickering on the backs of headstones and statues. Sam felt his eyebrows automatically drawing together. He couldn't see ghouls having some sort of bonfire party in the middle of a cemetery, even ones brazen and desperate enough to dig up graves and leave the mess for humans to find (and now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure any of the holes they'd made had been filled - good thing he hadn't fallen in one). Plus...

"D'you smell pot?" he asked Dean, who grunted in response.

They'd both slowed to a brisk walk, winding around the last few grave markers on top of the hill, and then they were looking down on a pack of teenagers. Definitely human ones, not ghouls. They were way too clean to be ghouls. There were no open graves, no withered corpse-pieces - just cans of beer, most of them empty, and buckets of half-eaten chicken. And at least one blunt, being passed back and forth between the guys sitting on headstones around the fire and the giggling girls that most of them had on their laps. This must be the local high school's out-crowd: out of nearly a dozen kids, only one was wearing cowboy boots.

It took long enough for them to notice the strangers standing over them; the crossfading probably had a lot to do with that. Sam was just about to clear his throat when one of the girls, her sideswept hair too matte-black to be anything but dyed, glanced up at the two of them. She tried to shriek but sucked air in instead of blowing it out. She fell off her boyfriend's lap and hit the ground hard enough to force that air back out in a grunt. Her head just barely missed the corner of the nearest grave marker, much to Sam's relief. That could've been bad.

"What the hell?" Her boyfriend - Sam was assuming, at least - scrambled to his feet, obviously and aimlessly angry. He wobbled, but managed not to lose his balance. "What the hell, man? Who the fuck are you?"

"Cops?" one of the others - this one without a girl - said, halfway between an answer and a question. The kid who'd stood up still had the smoldering joint tucked between the fingers of one hand, and his nearest neighbor grabbed it. His girlfriend snatched it away from him before he could put it to his lips, stubbing it out on the robes of the stone angel whose pedestal they were sitting on with a warning look.

"They ain't cops, dumbass," a wearing a ballcap said with a snort, shoving the kid who'd originally suggested it. "They came to my house. My dad said they ain't cops."

"Was he the gun guy?" Dean ask"ed.

"What?"

"Shit, Tucker, wished you'da said that before Audrey killed our roach," complained the kid sitting on the angel. The girl on his lap slapped his chest, really more of a pat.

"Oh, fuck you!"

"Well." Dean interrupted them, the twang in his voice growing heavier. They obviously hadn't noticed the machete yet, and he didn't seem eager for them to, slipping it into his belt at the small of his back. Sam followed his lead. "Guess this place is even more Mayberry than I thought, if the local rejects can't find a better place to get high than the boneyard."

"More _what_?" one of the girls asked, confused. The kid who was already standing - and not helping up his still-stunned girlfriend - puffed himself up.

"Hey," he said. "What's your problem, anyway? We're not hurting anybody."

"Pretty sure the guy whose grave you built the world's shittiest fire on top of would disagree." Dean stamped a booted foot twice, indicating the bodies underneath them. "And all the people whose headstones you've got your asses all over. Don't you have any respect for the dead?"

A couple of the kids shifted uncomfortably, like it hadn't occurred to them that they were sitting above dead bodies, but the one arguing with Dean was unmoved.

"And what're you doing here?" he challenged. "You two queers get off on doing it in a graveyard?"

That got a laugh from his friends, and Sam was very nearly empathetic for a moment: he could feel Dean's mild irritation sharpening into something harder. Never mind that this kid couldn't possibly know they really were a couple. It was still a slur, still an excuse to start a fight. He'd better step in.

"You kids should leave," Sam said quietly, after clearing his throat to draw their attention. He felt ridiculous saying "you kids," like he was pretending to be a lot older than he was, but maybe that wasn't a bad thing. His fake badge wouldn't have much clout here.

"Hey, Lurch talks!" the one in the baseball cap exclaimed. There was another laugh.

"You kidding me?" Dean mumbled to Sam. "They know Lurch, but they don't get Mayberry?" Sam shrugged, not sure what to tell him.

"Hey. Hey. Homos." Still standing up, Dean's new friend forced them to focus on him again. He must've picked up on a little bit of Dean's reaction when he called them queers. "Look. How much longer are we gonna have to put up with you guys? Don't know if you noticed, but we're trying to have a good time here."

For some reason, he tried to take a bow after that, very nearly overbalancing and faceplanting into the fire. His friends didn't seem to notice, because they cheered anyway. His girlfriend, meanwhile, finally got up, hauling herself shakily to her feet and then taking his spot on the headstone. Maybe she'd been waiting for him to help her up.

"Oh, yeah, looks like a regular party up in here," Dean agreed. "Smoking joints and eating KFC with dead folks - doesn't get much better than that. But you're gonna have to take it somewhere else, 'cause I'm pretty sure my _partner_ here - " He placed special emphasis on the word "partner" as he jabbed a thumb at Sam. " - told you to scram. All sorts of nasty things could happen to you in a graveyard at night."

"Uh, wow. I'd tell you to suck my dick," the kid said, pointing at his crotch with both index fingers, "but I'm worried you might enjoy that." More stoned laughter. "So how 'bout you kiss my ass, old man, 'cause we ain't going nowhere."

"Yeah, okay." Dean was smiling now, and Sam could see it out of the corner of his eye. It wasn't at all a pleasant expression, and even seemed to be making the kids uncomfortable. Sam drew in a deep breath, smelling marijuana and wood smoke. "Let's try this again."

He stepped forward, plucking his machete out of his belt with his fingertips as he did so. Sam grabbed for him, Dean's name in his throat, but he missed and everything happened too fast for him to stop him another way. Sam heard his eyes change, he brandished the machete, and then he teleported across the fire so he was standing right in front of the kid who'd just told him to kiss his ass. His voice was - well, _demonic,_ halfway between a hiss and a growl, as he snarled right into his face: _"Leave."_

They all screamed bloody murder, of course. Especially Dean's chosen victim. He didn't scream like a girl, at least: the sound that came out of him was actually pretty deep, kind of a groan of mortal terror. But he did knock his girlfriend off her headstone when he bolted, spurring the rest of his friends to scatter in all direction and leave everything behind. Going off the way his girlfriend fell, Dean gave her a few telekinetic nudges to make sure she didn't bash her brains in or break her back. If she was aware of that, though, she didn't show it. Just scrambled very clumsily to her feet, skinning both knees bloody in the process, and took off down the hill. It took a second for Sam to make sense of what she was yelling, with all the tears and panic. A name, presumably her boyfriend's.

"'Royal'?" Dean repeated with a snort. "Wow." He turned to face Sam, then cocked his head at him. He hadn't switched his eyes back to normal, so the firelight reflected in the liquid black made for an eerie effect. "What?"

"You are _such_ a jerk sometimes," Sam replied, having folded his arms disapprovingly over his chest while the teenagers were running and screaming. He sure hoped that no one who lived nearby had heard that. They probably would've called the real cops to come and investigate if they had.

"I didn't see you trying to stop me," Dean pointed out. "Don't be a little bitch." He waved a hand at the fire and it went out. Completely out. No glowing embers, not even a puff of smoke. Sam blinked and widened his eyes, totally night-blind after having a bright light source in front of him for the last fifteen minutes.

"Can I get my flashlight out?" he asked, putting a hand on the head where it was sticking out of his back pocket. "Or are we trying not to let the ghouls know we're here?"

"Dude, you can get a floodlight out if you want," Dean replied. "Pretty sure every ghoul from here to Calgary knows we're here by now."

So Sam pulled his flashlight out and turned it on. He accidentally aimed the beam right at Dean's face, and he winced and put a hand up, the black shrinking into his pupils.

"Sam. C'mon."

"Sorry." Sam dropped the beam and they got moving again. He made a face as they picked their way through all the stuff the kids had abandoned, a mixture of garbage and personal belongings. Beer cans, jackets, chicken bones, hats... "Ugh. Look at all this crap."

"Leave it - that asshole caretaker deserves a mess to clean up," Dean told him. "Unless..." He bent in order to pick something up. "You want a new phone?"

"No. I just got a new phone, remember?"

"You sure?" Dean shook it enticingly. "It's a BlackBerry."

"Then I definitely don't want it." Sam stepped on something soft and pointed his flashlight down at it. "You want a...shockingly-large Ziploc bag of pot?"

"No." Dean was still holding his machete in the ready position from where he'd used it to menace the kids. "Never liked it all that much to begin with, and it definitely doesn't affect me anymore."

They moved down the side of the hill, looking for tunnels and checking graves for signs they'd been messed with. They didn't find anything right away, and Sam eventually let out a chuckle he'd been holding in for a while now. Dean turned to look at him, and he saw that his eyes were back to black.

"I'm sorry," Sam said, keeping his voice soft just in case. "It's just that you scaring the crap outta those kids was kind of hilarious."

"Really?" Dean asked with a grin. "I'd've thought you'd be on me for going over the top."

"Well, it's not like you hurt any of them - and they really were a bunch of douchebags," Sam pointed out. "Plus. We needed them gone."

"Yeah, nothing like spending the whole damn night tripping over a pack of stoners," Dean agreed.

"That, and we've got ghouls who don't have a problem with digging up graves and leaving them open in broad daylight," Sam said. "Unarmed kids, drunk and high, alone on their home turf at night...fresh meat. Might be too much for them to resist."

"That's all we need," Dean said. "A body count where the bodies didn't start off dead in the first place." He tossed his machete into the air with a flick of his wrist, catching it easily by the handle. "I'm gonna level with you, though, Sammy: I was not thinking about saving them from ghouls when I chased 'em off."

Sam laughed. "I know." Pausing beside a grave that looked oddly sunken and trying to figure out if the coffin had been stolen or just collapsed, he commented, "As long as we're leveling, I was kinda rooting for Royal to step in a gopher hole and break his ankle."

"There are a lot of gophers around here." Standing on the other side of the grave, Dean grinned at Sam again. "Wonder what kinda _relationship_ the ghouls've got with them."

"Shut up - I'm gonna make you read the book." Sam turned away and struck out across the graveyard, reaching the bottom of the hill. He heard Dean laugh and start to follow him - and then dry earth crunched loudly, grass ripped, rocks bounced off each other. The ground rumbled a little as Sam whirled around to see that the sunken grave had caved in, creating what looked like a bottomless pit from here.

He knew it shouldn't be anywhere near his mind, but his hair was _really_ bothering him. One of those weird panic thoughts. It didn't swing like it was supposed to when he turned, held stiff by the gel. It was tight and hard and uncomfortable against his scalp.

"Dean?" he demanded, walking fast towards the grave.

"Right here." Sam swung his flashlight in the direction of the voice, found Dean standing off to the side. He must've teleported out of the way when the ground disappeared under his feet. He strolled back over to the pit as Sam relaxed. The two of them looked down into it together, being careful of the edge. Sam shone his light down into it. It dropped down eight, maybe nine feet, with the ragged mouth of a tunnel opening on either side. There wasn't much debris at the bottom, so there must have only been a thin crust of soil covering the empty grave. "Well. Guess we found their tunnels."

Sam looked at Dean, who shook his head like he was answering a question that hadn't been asked yet. "I'm not going in there," he said adamantly.

"We have to," Sam told him. "You said so yourself, in the car. They're obviously not aboveground tonight, which means that we're gonna need to - "

Dean suddenly put a hand over Sam's mouth, cutting him off. Irritated, Sam seriously considered biting him.

"Shh." Dean's voice was below a whisper. Sam had to concentrate to understand what he was saying. "Something's coming."

Sam reflexively switched off his flashlight. When Dean took his hand away, he matched his register. "Those kids again?"

Dean shook his head. Turning away from Sam and placing his boots very carefully to keep from making too much noise, he scanned the landscape around them. Sam stayed close. He put away his flashlight for the moment and took out his machete, which he'd just left in his belt after the run-in with the teenagers. He leaned in to murmur directly into Dean's ear: "This better not be an excuse just to keep you out of the tunnels."

Dean's head began to turn towards him, and he might've answered, but a hand grabbed Sam's ankle before he could. The ankle on what he still unconsciously thought of as his bad leg. He gasped, and was vaguely proud he didn't scream. At the same time, the hand tightened. Tendons creaked and bones ground together. Then his foot was yanked out from under him.

His knees stung when they hit the ground, and he grunted. He saw Dean move towards him, heard him curse under his breath, and then a dark figure rushed him. He teleported out of its way, but the ghoul changed directions and managed to grab him this time, and they were grappling among the headstones. Dirt shifted as, all around them, heads and hands popped out of the ground like toadstools after a heavy rain. Ghouls in filth-streaked clothes that'd obviously been taken off corpses hauled themselves up into the night.

Sam twisted as the hand on him tightened to the point where his foot's blood supply was cut off. A ghoul in a ripped suit, still buried from the waist down, grinned at him. It looked like an old man, which made sense - in a town like this, most of the dead would be elderly. The grin dropped away when Sam whipped his machete through its wrist. Dark blood spurted from both stumps, and the ghoul howled and clutched its forearm as Sam scrambled away from it. Probably getting grave dirt all over the ass of his jeans.

He forced himself up as fast as possible and hopped backwards on one foot, barely avoiding the ghouls closing in as he frantically shook his leg until the severed hand on his ankle finally let go and went spinning away over the nearest row of grave markers.

He put his foot down and found that he was right next to Dean. Who already had a few kills under his belt, judging by the decapitated bodies on the ground beside him. Sam couldn't help feeling a little inadequate.

Stance predatory and machete slick with syrupy blood, Dean grinned at the ghouls, who'd stopped advancing for the moment. There were at least a dozen of them (Sam couldn't tell for sure, since a lot were wearing black and he still couldn't see in the dark), and they were muttering amongst themselves.

"Those aren't hunters."

"What else could they be?"

"The one's human. I can smell it on him."

"Well, _that_ one's _not_. Just look at his eyes. And he - blinked out or something when Waste tried to tackle him."

Dean laughed, loudly, and Sam realized that he was enjoying himself. Really enjoying himself. At least these were ghouls and not highschoolers.

"C'mon," he coaxed. "Who's next?" He twirled the machete, sending drops of blood flying in all directions. A wave of disgust rolled through Sam when one hit his cheek, and Dean must have felt it, because he squinted the tiniest bit in apology. "Don't keep me waiting, now."

The ghouls had fallen silent when Dean started talking. They stayed that way now, though one of them growled.

"No volunteers?" Dean asked, feigning disappointment. "That's too bad. Guess we're gonna have to do this the hard way."

He thrust a hand in the direction of the nearest ghoul, palm out, then closed it into a fist and dragged it back towards himself. The ghoul came with it, struggling and shrieking as it was hauled rapidly over the ground. Dean swung as soon as it was in range, taking the head cleanly off the shoulders. Cleanly except for the fountain of blood, of course.

Sam was actually a little surprised that the ghouls didn't just cut and run after that, but they must feel like they had to defend their territory. Also, they did have an advantage in terms of numbers. They might figure there was nothing wrong with sacrificing members of their mischief until Sam and Dean were overwhelmed. And, really, that seemed to be their strategy.

He and Dean fought back to back as the ghouls rushed them. There were even more than Sam had initially thought - they just kept popping up out of the ground and coming out from behind monuments and headstones. This had to be why they were raiding graves so sloppily. There were too many for them to feed traditionally. And as Sam hacked and slashed, forcing the ghouls back with blows to their chests and going for their heads and necks when they came again, he couldn't help noticing how bad of shape they were all in. Blotchy skin, teeth rotten and missing, a sick, corrupted smell coming off all of them. They were close enough that he could see all their various wounds and illnesses even without his flashlight, and he knew it wasn't just the forms they'd taken on or their diet.

Sam knew what a healthy ghoul was supposed to look like. His - Mourner - had not only been in its prime, it'd eaten fresh meat every day. These definitely didn't look anything like Mourner. Maybe that was why they were so easy to kill.

Dean was definitely doing the best because of his strength, speed, and reflexes. He wasn't teleporting, which Sam appreciated, wanting him to stay as close as possible. He didn't seem to be using much telekinesis, either. He was laughing, though, loud, ecstatic whoops, and while Sam couldn't risk glancing over his shoulder, it sounded like Dean was kicking the bodies piling up at his feet out of the way to make room for more.

Sam was way less aggressive and, to be completely honest, less sure of himself. After all, the last thing he'd killed had been Gordon...with his feet. But when the first wounded ghoul refused to back down, he made a swing like the ones he and Dean had practiced so many times. Use his full strength, follow through, aim for the sweet spot between vertebrae. Next thing he knew, the body was crumpling and the head was bouncing off between the grave markers. Another head soon joined it, and Sam's confidence climbed. Along with his disgust, but blood washed off.

It felt like a lot longer, but they were probably only five or ten minutes in when the ghouls realized they'd have a much better chance with Sam than Dean. So they started gathering on his side, and Dean patted his thigh with his free hand. It made a sticky sound against the denim.

"Okay," he said. "Let's switch."

"What?"

"Spin!"

They did, Sam moving with Dean and following his lead, and he was silently thrilled by how well they pulled it off. They worked so fluidly together that it was like the two of them had been hunting partners for years. Sam was sure that anybody watching them would've had a hard time telling that this was their first case. Granted, a lot of that probably had to do with Dean being a demon, the whole empathy thing especially. But still.

They rotated one more time when the ghouls tried to gang up on Sam again. A couple more bodies dropped. Then Sam could see a change in the surviving members of the mischief. They weren't charging anymore, a few were talking quietly to each other, and a few more had taken at least one step backwards. When they started to bolt, one by one and then in small groups, Dean laughed yet again.

"Ooh," he said. "They're scared now - 'bout damn time, if you ask me." His back left Sam's, and Sam turned to see Dean facing him, blood-spattered, still black-eyed, and grinning from ear to ear. "Ready for the fun part?"

Sam was sweating even though it was cold enough for the tips of his ears to be aching. Dean was breathing normally, but Sam's breaths were loud and ragged and burned in his lungs. His right arm ached from chopping off heads. It must be adrenaline, though, because he knew he was in great shape from training with Dean and running on his own.

He could see ghouls ducking behind headstones and diving back into their tunnels. A few were just running. On the ground around him and Dean, he counted seven corpses, although there could be more that Dean had kicked out of sight. He didn't want to chase down the live ones or deal with the clean up on the dead ones, which would need to be burned. He knew he had to do it. He just didn't want to.

"I think you might've had too much fun already," he said, and Dean just laughed.

"You aren't jealous, are you?" he asked, then suddenly stepped forward and kissed Sam, apparently on impulse. He put a hand on the back of his head and Sam leaned into it, though he could feel dried gel cracking in his hair and against Dean's fingers. The kiss was nice, energizing, even, but he had to break it with a grimace after a few seconds. He could handle the taste of sulfur, but not ghoul blood. "Sorry." Dean licked his lips, much to Sam's dismay. "We better go get 'em before they've got a chance to dig in...you think we need to take them all out?"

Sam sighed, appreciating both the fact that Dean was asking for his input and the chance to catch his breath. "I think we might have to. There're just so many of them, and...clearly, they're all aggressive. Plus, I'm worried that any we leave alive'll harbor a grudge." It happened. Not as much with ghouls as it did with other monsters, granted, but it could still be a problem.

"Great. That's what I was thinking." Dean adjusted his grip on his machete and looked around the graveyard, scanning slowly. "Well, let's go root 'em out, then. Don't suppose you noticed how many we had left?"

Sam let out a short bark of a laugh. "You're joking, right?"

"Course I am." Dean stepped over a particularly ragged corpse and motioned for Sam to follow him. "You're doing totally awesome, by the way."

Sam perked up some at the praise. It wasn't like he'd thought he was doing a _bad_ job, but he'd needed to hear that anyway. He headed after Dean, smiling and opening his mouth to thank him, but Dean spoke again before he could: "So, ready to split up?"

That brought Sam up so short that he couldn't even think of a response right away. Dean glanced over his shoulder at him and laughed.

"I'm _joking_ \- again," he said. "Don't worry. We're not gonna do that."

Sam let out a slow breath, relieved that Dean got he wasn't ready to work solo yet but still pissed at him for intentionally scaring him. "Asshole."

"Don't be a baby," Dean responded. "And why don't you go ahead and get out your flashlight? This'll work a lot better if you can see."

Sam did, and they started walking, bloody machetes up and at the ready. They talked, too, though they kept their voices down. The ghouls already knew they were here. Plus, Dean clearly wasn't tense enough to remain silent just out of nerves, and Sam was doing okay, too.

"So how many are usually in a mischief?" Dean asked.

"Three to eight," Sam replied. "At least one mated pair, and at least one pup." Spotting Dean shaking his head, he asked him, "What?"

"I'm just not sure if it's useful or freaky that you're a - a walking encyclopedia of monster facts," Dean replied.

"You're not really in any sort of position to be calling somebody a - right there!" Sam pointed with his flashlight. He wasn't sure if the ghoul that'd just suddenly dug its way up from behind the nearest headstone had been charging at Dean or trying to run past him, but either way, he took it out in one swipe. The force of the blow to its neck made the legs, still pumping, swing up into the air, and the headless body landed on its back. Under different circumstances, it might've been funny.

"Cleanup's gonna be a bitch on this one," Dean commented, gesturing to indicate the entire cemetery.

"I know I'm not looking forward to it," Sam agreed. "You wanna keep the bodies in one spot to try and make it easier?"

"I don't see the point 'til we're ready to torch 'em," Dean answered. "I remember where they all are. We just gotta make sure we don't miss any heads."

They fell into a rhythm. Find ghoul, chop its head off before it could attack or run again, move on. Whoever happened to be closest to it when they noticed it was the one who did the chopping. At Sam's suggestion, they swept the graveyard methodically, working in a grid pattern that probably would've fit better if the plot of land hadn't been irregularly-shaped. At least they could be confident they were clearing the whole thing.

Sam's thoughts went back to Mourner as they worked. It hadn't been great company, but it'd been cooperative, at least. Hadn't tried to escape, answered all of Sam's questions honestly, was genuinely interested in the book he was writing. It wasn't...well, it definitely wasn't Vaughn. Nobody was Vaughn. But Sam had kind of liked it anyway, and had even put himself through a lot of grief to have it returned to its home in Vermont once he was finished with it, since everybody already knew how to kill ghouls (not that they had to do it a lot) and there was no logic in putting it down. Not even for a dissection.

Sam still felt kind of weird about hunting ghouls. They were primarily scavengers, after all, not predators. But it helped to remind himself that, like he'd noticed earlier, these ghouls weren't anything like Mourner, who'd lived in a very small group and been aware of its place in the food chain. These ones were dangerous. What he and Dean were doing was exterminating vermin. Thinking of it like that made things easier.

The number of ghouls slowly dwindled. The late hour, stress, and physical exertion were all really starting to get to Sam, but he didn't say anything to Dean. This was the job and he could handle it. There couldn't possibly be that many monsters still lurking in the graveyard, and Dean's powers would make torching the remains about a million times easier than it normally would've been. And then they'd have to clear the tunnels before they left, and that'd be awful, but hopefully it wouldn't take too long.

Sam had just started to fantasize about taking a long, hot shower in the wee hours of the morning, then curling up in bed with Dean for the rest of the day, when things started going wrong.

Two ghouls suddenly sprinted from behind a large, ostentatious cross statue before Sam had even had a chance to aim his flashlight in the direction of their hiding spot. Dean laughed as he watched them race across the cemetery at full tilt.

"Oh, boy," he said. "Looks like we've got a couple runners."

"Dean, wait," Sam said, but it was too late: Dean had already taken off after them at something less than his top speed, which was still pretty damn fast. Sam wasn't sure why he didn't just teleport into their path. Maybe he was tired of teleportation, given how much he'd done it today. Maybe he wanted the feeling of actively running down his prey.

A needle of fear slid into Sam's throat. He tried to believe it was for Dean, but he was pretty confident his partner could hold his own just fine against a couple of ghouls. Even with all the kills he'd racked up tonight, Sam was vulnerable, and he knew it. Having Dean any further away than right next to him was terrifying.

Sam was aware that this kind of dependence couldn't possibly be healthy. But a stable psyche had never been one of his redeeming qualities, and even as he had the thought, he was starting to jog after Dean and taking a breath to call his name again.

That breath left him, hard and quiet, when he hit the ground all of a sudden. He was so surprised that it took him longer than it should have to figure out he'd tripped...and to realize that the impact had knocked his machete and flashlight out of his hands.

Not just tripped, actually, Sam had to acknowledge when he tried to get up and something hopped onto his back to force him back down. _Been_ tripped. If this was an actual plan, then Sam was grudgingly impressed by these ghouls' ability to think under pressure.

"Got you." Hot breath, reeking of long-spoiled meat, dry earth, and formaldehyde, washed over the side of Sam's face as the ghoul on top of him hissed directly into his ear. The smell made his stomach twitch, and he was glad he'd last eaten hours before.

"Really?" Sam had managed to pull his arms under himself when he'd tried to get to his feet, and now he planted his forearms against the hard ground and bucked. The ghoul, who probably weighed less than a hundred pounds, tumbled off, and Sam was able to scramble up onto his knees before it came at him again.

It knocked him down for a second time, inhumanly strong despite its withered frame. He wrestled with it in the dirt and grass, focused on keeping its snapping jaws away from him. A bite wouldn't turn him, but it was basically guaranteed to get infected. He slammed an elbow into its throat so hard he hit his funny bone on its spine, making it choke and recoil. On his back and with one arm tingling unpleasantly, he tried to drag himself clear, but it pounced on him again before he could.

Sam couldn't see it very well. Not only was it the middle of the night (something that kept hammering home his infuriating lack of real night vision), but a nearby tombstone was shading the two of them from the stars, and his flashlight beam was pointing away. He didn't realize he was sparring with the ghoul he'd chopped a hand off of earlier until a wet stump of a wrist hit him squarely in the nose, the exposed bones scratching his face. His eyes watered and something hot almost instantly started dripping out of one nostril, but his nose wasn't broken. He knew what it would've felt like if it had been.

The pain made him mad. Mad at the ghoul for attacking him, at Dean for abandoning him, and at himself for being stupid and weak. He bent like he was curling into a ball in defeat, until he could bring up a leg. What'd used to be his "bad" one. In the back of his mind, he noticed that it was cramping as he kicked out with as much strength as he could muster - which, after months of training and running, wasn't too shabby. The ghoul went flying when his foot hit its chest, and much to his satisfaction, he was sure that he felt a rib or two break under the sole of his boot.

Sam finally stood, leg hurting but not too bad. He couldn't see Dean anywhere when he looked around, but that might change once he had his flashlight again. First, though, he needed to get the machete. The ghoul whose chest he'd hopefully just caved in really needed its head cut off. He shuffled through the grass, squinting, until one of his boots hit the blade, then bent to grab it. He heard something scuttling towards him a second too late. He tried to straighten up, but he wasn't fast enough to stop a bony hand from hooking into his hair.

Fingernails that were more like claws dug hot lines into his scalp. With gel sticking all the strands of his hair together, there was no breaking the grip. Pain erupted at Sam's roots as he was forcibly dragged back down onto the ground, but he was distracted from it a second later by having his head smashed into the edge of a headstone.

The first blow more or less took the fight out of him, but he struggled anyway, and yelled Dean's name as loudly as he could manage. After his skull made contact with the slab of granite a second and third time, though, he was limp as a rag doll, thoughts foggy and whole body aching like a fresh bruise. He couldn't believe he hadn't passed out. Maybe he was still awake because of the pain of having his head, which had to be pretty heavy, held up by a single handful of hair. One that connected to basically all the rest of the hair on his scalp like a spiderweb, because of the gel.

"I don't know what you and that black-eyed thing are to each other," the ghoul, crouching next to him, began. Its voice matched its body: creaky, ancient. "But we saw the two of you kissing, and that makes us think he values you, for one reason or another. Will he come running if I make you squeal? I think he will." The hand in his hair tightened, upping the stinging in his scalp. Sam was pretty out of it, maybe even concussed, but he knew he didn't want to make any sounds of pain. He bit the inside of one cheek to keep himself quiet. "Fine. Don't squeal. You yelled for him earlier; I imagine he's already on his way."

Sam made an effort to get away, one that came more from instinct than a conscious decision. It was basically just an upwards twitch. The ghoul responded by ripping his head back down and rubbing the side of his face into the cemetery soil. Sam coughed and spit, dirt in one eye and his mouth. His head hurt, too, since it was the tombstone-bashed side that was on the ground.

"Now, now," the ghoul said. "Can't have you running off before he gets here." It paused. Looking up with his dirt-free eye (which focused perfectly - that was a good sign), Sam could see it looking around. "Actually, I'm surprised he's not here already. You called him, didn't you? And we saw how he can disappear from one place and reappear instantly in another." The ghoul lifted Sam's head and lowered its own to look at him with fake sympathy. "Maybe you're expendable. You're only human, after all. Food."

Trying to play on Sam's insecurity about his relationship with Dean wouldn't work. He didn't have much of it anymore. "You _want_ him to come kill you?"

The ghoul laughed. "He can kill as many of us as he wants. We'll figure out how to hurt him eventually, and then it'll all be over."

It was either overly confident or insane, courtesy of the embalming fluid Sam could smell on its breath. He thought they might be close to running out of ghouls for Dean to kill. Where the hell was he, anyway? He actually agreed with the thing holding him down on that one. He spat again, but his teeth still felt gritty. "Yeah...okay. Good luck."

For some reason, that really pissed the ghoul off. It forced his head down again - face-first, aggravating his already-swollen nose. Sam couldn't help crying out this time, voice muffled by the dirt. It felt like the ghoul was leaning all of its weight on the back of his skull.

"Listen to me, _meat_ ," it hissed at him. "If he's not here within the next minute, we're going to start eating you. Iblis knows we could use fresh meat, and it looks like there's plenty of you to go around." It dug its bony knuckles, hard, into the place where his neck met his head, grinding them into the tendons. "We'll start with your hands and feet. See if the screams from that finally bring - "

It stopped abruptly when a nearby shriek echoed over the graveyard, followed by the wet sound of a machete carving its way through a neck. The ghoul's grip on Sam's hair loosened slightly, and he pictured it straightening up and looking around. He wanted to tell it that it'd gotten its wish; Dean was here. But he could hardly even breathe with the position that he was in, let alone speak.

There were more screams, more slices. Bodies and heads thudded. There must have been a lot of ghouls in this area, and Sam heard some of them try to run, but of course they didn't stand a chance. The ghoul holding him began to tremble - thankfully, not enough to pull on his hair any more than it already was - but, to its credit, it stayed right where it was. Until it was suddenly ripped upwards with a howl of fear.

Unfortunately, it didn't bother to let go of his hair. Sam yelled as a good handful was ripped free, along with what felt like more than one decent-sized scrap of scalp. There was a _whoosh_ ing sound of something flying through the air, the ghoul screamed, and then there was a loud impact, punctuated by snapping bones. Sam lifted his head to see it crumpled against the base of the nearest headstone, which it'd presumably just been thrown against, and Dean dropping into a crouch next to him. His eyes were still black and his expression was almost comically worried.

"Oh, god," he said. "I'm gonna skin that thing alive - I'm so sorry, Sammy. I shouldn't've left you alone, I should've got here sooner...I heard you, but I was down in the tunnels. I can't teleport right now."

"I'm okay," Sam assured him as he pushed himself up and got his legs under him so he could sit. "It's okay." He was still frustrated, though, a little resentful...and embarrassed. He was sure Dean could feel all of that. He was going to ask him why he couldn't teleport, but Dean reached for his face and started probing it with bloody hands before he could. His touch was gentle, but Sam flinched backwards anyway when he got near his tender nose. Dean hissed, and he couldn't tell if it was a noise of sympathy or anger.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Okay." He all but shot to his feet, grabbing his machete from where he'd driven the blade into the ground as he crouched, then strode over to the ghoul. It was stirring feebly, and yelped when Dean grabbed a handful of its sparse old-man hair and yanked it up. He held it at eye level, and its feet dangled a good six inches above the ground. "Hey, there. What's your name?"

His voice was manically bright and cheerful, a predatory edge buried in it. Sam slowly stood as the ghoul grunted out, "Rupture."

"Well, nice to meet you, Rupture. Y'know, earlier, I heard you say something about starting with the hands and feet. That sure sounds like a good idea." He tapped the raw edge of the ghoul's wrist-stump roughly with the machete. Rupture winced. "Looks like my 'meat' already got started on that. Whaddaya say we finish the job? Joint by joint 'til you're nothing but a head?"

"Dean," Sam said, walking over to him. "Don't."

Dean glanced at him as he came up beside him. "He was gonna eat you. Slowly."

"So just kill him. Don't...play with him."

"I'm not playing, I'm _punishing_."

"Dying's not punishment enough?" Sam asked. "Just cut his head off."

Dean stared at him, hard, for a few seconds, and Sam couldn't help feeling slightly unnerved. It was near impossible to read him when his eyes were solid black. Finally, he broke eye contact and turned his attention back to the ghoul with a shrug. "Fine."

"Ple - " Rupture started, sounding panicked, but Dean slashed through its neck before it could get the rest of the word out. Most of its neck, at least. And a fair portion of its spinal cord, too. But he left enough nerves and tissue intact for the ghoul to live long past what a simple decapitation would've allowed. Its eyes bugged and its mouth opened in a silent scream, blood running out the corners, as Dean violently shook it until the weight of the body ripped it free from the head the rest of the way.

That was what alerted Sam to the fact that it was over: that disgustingly-juicy tearing noise. He'd turned away with a grimace when Dean started shaking, but he looked at him again as he drop-kicked the head - because, apparently, that was just something he had to do, even though they'd need to go find that head later. Even in the dark, Sam could tell that it looked like he'd run through a blood sprinkler.

 _"Jesus,"_ Sam stated, flatly.

"You know the name of God doesn't make me flinch." Dean turned to Sam, studying him. " _And_ you know he had that coming." He put a hand on his shoulder. "Now that he's dealt with, though, let's go on and head back to the room so I can take a look at that nose."

"But - what about the other ghouls?" Sam asked, though he didn't resist as Dean started to lead him away, picking up his flashlight and machete on the way and handing them to him. "We've gotta - "

"What about 'em?" Dean interrupted him. "They're all dead."

"What?"

"They're dead. We're done. Graveyard's clear."

"Are you totally sure about that?" Sam asked uncertainly.

"Yeah."

Dean sounded pretty confident in himself, and not all that inclined to talk about it. So Sam changed the subject. "How about the bodies?"

"I'll take care of it," Dean replied.

"But - "

"I _said_ I'll take care of it, Sam." Dean cut him off again, sounding annoyed. "I've got it. We've got six or seven hours of darkness left. Plenty of time to clean up, but you're my priority right now."

Sam was silent. He felt like he was being brushed off, and he resented that, but right now, he was feeling too tired and beat up to focus on why. And he did like the idea of going back to the motel instead of spending the rest of the night dragging corpses around. He let Dean guide him through the cemetery, let him keep a hand on him to steady him when he stumbled. He stumbled a lot, because he was limping right now. He knew it and concentrated on correcting it, but every time he did, it didn't last long. He was still spitting and blinking out dirt, too. His head and face throbbed, but he didn't say anything, not wanting to whine.

They walked along the fence instead of going back exactly the way they'd come. Sam didn't understand why until Dean lifted a loose section of chain link, probably where the kids from earlier had come in and out, and pushed him through with a hand on the small of his back. He'd said he couldn't teleport right now. Sam tried to ask him about that; Dean beat him to the punch.

"What happened?" he asked. Sam didn't want to admit the truth, but his brain was too bruised - or at least jostled - to come up with a convincing lie.

"He got me by the hair," he said. To his credit, Dean didn't say anything, which must've been hard for him. "You were right about that. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Dean said. "It wasn't your fault, and it wasn't my nose that got broken. I left you alone after I said I wouldn't. _I'm_ sorry." He didn't say anything else for a couple of minutes as they made the long walk back to the car, then sighed. "We are gonna have to talk about your hair. But I'm not gonna make you do that tonight."

Sam grunted his appreciation as he climbed into the car, sinking low in the passenger seat. The well-worn leather wasn't very forgiving of his aching body. He felt at his head in the back, where a handful of hair had been ripped out. There was definitely a lot missing. He thought he was bleeding some, too: the bald patch was damp and raw. At least he'd gotten all the dirt out of his mouth and eye by then.

Dean drove them back to the motel, let them into their room. He flicked on the lights and took Sam's machete from him. Sam went to sit on the foot of the bed, dropping his flashlight next to his backpack with a deep sigh. He heard water running in the bathtub and saw Dean kneeling next to it, rinsing the blood and gore off their weapons. He closed his eyes, and didn't open them again until Dean walked up to him. He was holding a wet washcloth. It probably belonged to the motel, given how thin and cheap it looked, and Sam hoped it was clean.

"All right." Dean took a seat next to him, then began dabbing the blood off his nose and upper lip when he turned to look at him. Sam noted that his eyes were back to green. He was gentle, so it didn't hurt too bad. "'Kay...so, you're swollen, but you don't have that raccoon look going on, so hopefully it's not actually broken." Dean squinted at him. "You hurt anywhere else?"

"Yeah, I've got - " Sam went to point out the huge goose egg right behind his temple, the one the headstone had brought up, but he abruptly cut himself off when something else caught his attention. "Oh my _god!_ "

"What?"

"You've got _nails_ in your _neck_!" He'd almost thought they were mushrooms at first, unable to make sense of the shape. They were long, dark, and crude, like they'd been shaped by hand with a hammer. There were three, rusted, and Dean's skin was angry and red and puffy all around where they were sticking out of him.

"Oh," Dean said. "Yeah. There's a few in my chest and belly, too. They got those in deeper." Sam looked. Dean's shirt was so dark with ghoul-blood that he hadn't even noticed at first, but now he could make out at least a dozen square metal heads dotting his torso. "They're iron. Coffin nails. They got me with 'em when I followed those two down into the tunnels. No idea how they even knew that'd work, seeing as they didn't know what I was, but it did. Slowed me down, at least." He touched one with his free hand, then pulled it away with a hiss as the skin of his fingertips steamed and reddened. "Can you take 'em out for me? Soon as I finish fixing you up?"

"Why in the hell didn't you tell me earlier?" Sam grabbed the three nails in Dean's neck and yanked them free. Dean's eyes narrowed slightly, but that was his only reaction. The holes the nails left behind were ragged. One leaked blood, and they all had steam trailing out of them as they slowly began to close. Sam held onto the nails for now, the iron cold and rough. He didn't want to drop them on the floor and the wastebasket was too far for him to sink a shot. "I could've pulled these out back in the cemetery. We could've teleported to the car."

"I kinda forgot about them," Dean admitted. He looked at Sam's head, where he'd been about to point out the lump earlier, as Sam held back an exasperated sigh.

"Didn't it hurt?"

"My pain's not the same as yours," Dean replied. Sam couldn't think of anything to say to that.

He pulled the nails out of Dean, one by one. He wound up making a pile of them on the bedspread. Sure, they were dirty and bloody, but it was camo and he'd already gotten grime all over it just by sitting down. Plus, it wasn't like he slept on top of it.

"This reminds me of when I was in the cell," Dean commented. "In your cabin. And you were cleaning me up from where Gordon and those other assholes beat the shit outta me."

"You mean when you made fun of my limp and kicked me in my bad leg?" Sam replied.

"Pretty sure I apologized for that." Dean had been examining Sam even as he removed the nails, and now he was on the headstone-lump. He couldn't even touch the hair that covered that part of Sam's skull without him flinching. "D'you feel concussed at all? You're not acting like it."

"He didn't even knock me out, so I think I'm okay," Sam assured him. He pulled out one final nail from near Dean's navel, and his shirt fell free from where it'd been pinned to him. "And I think that's the last one."

"It was." Dean turned Sam slightly so that he could look at the back of his head. He must've found the bald patch, because he sucked his teeth sympathetically and then began to dab at it with the washcloth. Sam's eyes watered. "I can heal you now. Want me to do that?"

"No," Sam replied. "I really don't wanna rely on that unless whatever's wrong with me is, like, debilitating. 'Specially 'cause it drains you." He put a finger in one of Dean's slowly-shrinking nail-holes, then quickly jerked his hand back, having grossed himself out. "Heal your vessel instead, okay?"

"Yeah, all right." Dean drew back, and Sam looked at him again. "I've gotta go back to the graveyard and take care of all the dead ghouls. But d'you wanna get cleaned up first?"

"Yes," Sam said immediately. He wanted a shower so bad it almost hurt, and he wanted Dean to take it with him. He didn't want him to leave afterwards, but even though it made him feel guilty, he wasn't going to volunteer to help with the ghouls,. Standing up and shrugging out of his jacket, he held it up and grimaced at the blood covering the sleeves and the front. "Think we're gonna have to burn these clothes along with the bodies?"

"Let me have a crack at 'em first," Dean replied, standing up and taking Sam's jacket from him. "Nine times outta ten, I can get monster blood out of anything. Seltzer water works miracles."

"I thought you'd jump at the chance to burn clothes, with how much you hate laundry," Sam commented. Dean didn't say anything to that.

Sam undressed, handing his clothes to Dean as he took them off, then dumped the iron nails into the room's trash can. He hoped that was far enough away from Dean not to bother him. As Dean stripped, Sam grabbed the plastic shopping bag that held his shower stuff - shampoo, conditioner, a few other things - and walked naked into the bathroom. He left the lights on as he moved the machetes from the side of the tub to the counter, rinsed the residual ghoul-blood down the drain, and then held a hand under the water to wait for it to warm up. Dean joined him just as he was getting in.

"So," Dean proclaimed, pulling the curtain shut behind him. "Your first hunt in eight years, all wrapped up. Just about. How d'you feel?"

Sam groaned. He was standing directly under the spray, watching bloody water sluice off their bodies and swirl down the drain. Dean's body was, unfortunately, still full of holes. Smaller than they had been, but still there. At least they weren't steaming or bleeding anymore.

"Awful," Sam answered, deciding to be completely honest. "All I ever do is screw up and get hurt - and that's outside of hunting, too."

"Hey." Dean cupped the side of Sam's jaw, making him look him in the eyes. "That's not true. Since I've known you, you've killed a djinn, a banshee, five demons, a guy who was about as bad as all of those combined, and...six or seven ghouls. Sorry, I wasn't really keeping count." He rubbed Sam's cheekbone affectionately with a thumb. "Plus, you saved my smoky ass. Brought me back from Hell. Then decided to do the Trials, and hunt, and put in all the effort it took to get ready for that. You're doing better than you think."

Sam smirked a little, leaning into Dean's hand. "I hate how good you are at making me feel better." It'd worked so well that he was even willing to overlook the mention of Gordon. He reached out to touch Dean's chest, and felt the nail-holes closing fully under his palm. They left no scars behind, of course. Dean's eyes had gone black, hooded with heavy lids as he concentrated on healing himself. "Speaking of bringing you back from Hell. I'm really glad the ghouls used you for carpentry practice instead of exorcising you."

"I'm glad they just ripped out a bunch of your Barbie hair instead of killing you," Dean replied. When Sam snorted softly, he brought his other hand up and held his face between both. "I'm serious. I don't know what I'd do if you died and I couldn't get you back. I'm not sure who I'd be at this point without you, but I know I don't wanna find out."

Sam hadn't been expecting that kind of admission from Dean. Not right now, and maybe not ever. He could only respond physically to it. The naked spot on the back of his skull stung in the water as he moved his head forward to kiss Dean, and he put his arms around his waist. They kissed for a while, opening their mouths and tasting each other, and it grew steadily more heated. They moved closer together, so Sam could feel it when Dean started getting hard - which, of course, brought his own erection right up.

There was a bottle of lube in Sam's shower bag. Dean grabbed it, and Sam spread his legs so Dean could massage two fingers' worth into his hole. Then Dean picked him up by the thighs and braced his back against the cold tile wall. Sam closed his eyes and groaned, crossing his legs over Dean's ass, as Dean slid his cock into him.

Dean was gentle. Sam knew he had the power to batter him into a puddle of quivering pleasure, to shake whatever piece of furniture they were on to dust, to make someone in the room next door bang on the wall and yell at them to keep it down. He'd done it before. Sam had begged him to. Tonight, though, his rhythm was steady and smooth as he slipped back and forth inside of Sam. It didn't jostle his sore head or make it bang against the wall. Sam wrapped his arms around his neck, rolling his hips gently against Dean's, and they kissed between thrusts.

Sam's orgasm wasn't anything special when it happened, maybe because he'd had one already earlier in the day. He moved a little faster, held Dean a little tighter with both his arms and legs, and breathed a little harder. He didn't say anything or yell. Even the blurt of come he shot onto Dean's flat stomach was pretty average in its size, easily washed away by the water. He felt satisfied after he was finished, though, ready to go to sleep. And very, very close to Dean.

Dean finished a few seconds later, inside of Sam. He slowly lowered him as he wilted out of him, and Sam brought his feet down to meet the bottom of the tub.

"I wasn't planning on that," Dean said. Sam was standing on his own, but they were still holding each other. "Just so you know."

"I know," Sam replied. "Thanks anyway. I needed it." He rested his chin on Dean's shoulder. He'd let him wash him. He was tired, and he wanted to bask in the afterglow, which was sometimes better than the climax itself. It was in this case. "So. One hunt down. Can we do the first Trial now?"

Dean hesitated.

"We'll talk about that when we talk about your hair," he replied, reaching for Sam's shampoo.


	6. Chapter 6

_SW is clearly hiding something about life w/ father/what happened to them in Vermont. Gentle reminder that therapy won't work if he isn't honest didn't lead to change. Possible abuse? Shows clear signs of past trauma. Paranoia/defensiveness. Report from hospital mentioned multiple scars of different ages all over body. Might push issue in future sessions._

 _Says journaling is helping. Still refuses to share contents. Non-issue._

 _Seems to feel a strong sense of duty. Has mentioned "getting back to work" and "saving/protecting people." These seem like slip-ups: refuses to answer and withdraws when asked to elaborate. Possible delusions of grandeur or narcissistic personality disorder._

 _Very obviously doesn't grasp the extent of his injury. Believes firmly in a full recovery beyond "a little bit of a limp" and the eventual ability to walk unaided. Denial persists even when damage and outlook is fully explained, and when showed photos and X-rays of his own leg under bandages._

 _Has no concept of his physical limitations and believes he is capable of much more than he actually is. Unclear whether this is a new problem or a longstanding one._

 _Denial is #1 priority right now._

 _\- Notes from patient files of Sam Winchester's former therapist_

* * *

"You're just so goddamn stupid sometimes."

The way Dean said it made it come out blunt. Matter-of-fact. He didn't sound very angry or upset at all, and that pissed Sam off even more than it would've if he'd yelled at him.

" _I'm_ stupid?" he demanded. "Seriously? You're the one who seems to think it's fun to just go charging off on your own all the time."

"Well." Dean only had one hand on the wheel. It wasn't that uncommon for him and he probably didn't need to use both hands as much as a human driver did, so Sam wasn't sure why it irritated him so much right now. "I did wrap up the hunt."

"You did," Sam agreed. "You also wound up full of nails, so you couldn't really use your powers at all, and I almost got eaten."

"I wouldn't've let you get eaten," Dean said "I _didn't_ let you get eaten. Not even part of you."

"What if they'd actually known what you were, though, Dean?" Sam asked, spreading his hands. "What if there'd been a devil's trap waiting for you down in those tunnels instead of just a bunch of ghouls with coffin nails?" He answered his own question. "They could've done whatever they wanted to me and you wouldn't've even been able to move."

"I'm sorry," Dean said. "Did you just...admit you needed me to save your dumb ass?"

"I needed your help on this hunt," Sam said. It was hard not to speak through gritted teeth, admitting that right now. "Of course I did. It was my first one in years. I was rusty." He sucked in a deep breath. "You seem to think I'm totally helpless, though. And I told you we were partners and I had your back, and _you_ brought up how I called you back after Gordon shipped you down to the Pit, but all that seems to go out the window when we're actually hunting." He glared at Dean. The expression physically hurt - he had a savage headache that must've sprung up sometime after he'd fallen asleep last night - but it was worth it. "Or when I wanna do the First Trial and start saving the world. Y'know, like you _promised_ I could after I did a hunt with you."

"Hope you realize you sound like you're about five years old right now," Dean stated. He didn't even do Sam the courtesy of looking at him

"Well, that's how you're treating me!"

"Okay: one." Dean lifted the index finger of the hand he had on the wheel. "I did not say 'a' hunt. I said _at least one_ hunt. And if I didn't, that's what I meant. And two." He lifted his middle finger. "I don't think you're helpless, all right? But I do think you're stubborn, and totally unrealistic, and too boneheaded to know when you're being those two things, and you need more practice before you do something as huge as a Trial."

"I'm a lot less worried about getting hurt than I am about you deciding to abandon me and bleed out the hellhounds on your own," Sam said. "And then getting dragged back to Hell by them."

Dean pushed a forceful breath out through his nose, and Sam deeply regretted what he'd just said. That'd been worse than Dean bringing up Gordon or Vaughn would've been for him. He hadn't been thinking about that when he said it and didn't want to believe he'd subconsciously tried to gouge Dean, but with how he felt right now, it wasn't outside the realm of possibility. Especially because he couldn't quite bring himself to apologize as the silent seconds dragged on.

"I fucked up last night," Dean said after a while, and took his hand off the wheel in order to throw both of them up in the air. Sam's relief at him acting like nothing had happened evaporated into panic before he slapped the hand back down. "I admitted it, I said I was sorry, and I still feel shitty. Not sure what else you want from me." Finally, he looked at Sam. "So we both need practice, okay? I'm used to working alone and you're used to not doing any of this. And I don't get why me saying that got your hackles up so much."

"Sorry I didn't roll right over and agree with you when you called me stupid," Sam said replied acidly, head pounding.

"Well, you're acting stupid right now," Dean replied, unapologetic. "Which is especially frustrating 'cause I know you aren't." His hand tightened on the wheel. "You coulda died last night, Sam. Or wound up brain-damaged - or missing your hands and feet. D'you seriously not get why I'm not comfortable letting you go straight from that into the Trials?"

"D'you not get why I'm not comfortable with you acting like you get to make the decision for me?" Sam countered.

"I'm not. I'm making the decision for _me_ \- and that's another thing you don't seem to get. Dean's pupils were irregularly-shaped, black smoke boiling furiously at the center of his eyes. Sam could see it reflected in the rear-view mirror. "You can't just do everything on your own. Much as you seem to hate it, you need my help, and you gotta do at least a few things my way."

"I said I'd let you cut my hair."

"How - noble and generous of you, your freaking majesty." Dean looked at him again, then sighed loudly. "I can feel how bad you're hurting, y'know. Part of that's gotta be lack of sleep. Why don't you just climb in the back? We can sort this out when your brain's not one loud noise away from leaking out your ears."

"I'm fine."

"You - "

"I said, _I'm fine._ "

Rejecting Dean's offer made Sam want to cry, just like it had the couple other times he'd put it on the table since they'd left the motel. He knew he hadn't gotten enough sleep. His body was punishing him for that, and for the beating that his head had taken last night. The goose egg that he'd gotten in the graveyard was so swollen that he could see the shape of it even under his hair, and when he'd parted that hair in the mirror - wincing at the pain even that much contact caused him - the skin of his scalp had been a dark purple with bruising. On the back of his head, at least, the bald patch had scabbed over. But it stung practically every time he moved. He'd never realized just how much talking or nodding pulled on the skin back there.

A nap would be incredible. Even a few Tylenol or something would be welcome; anything to let him escape the agony of his headache for a little while. He was almost tempted to go ahead and have Dean heal him after all. But he refused to ask for that or pills, and he refused to interrupt their dispute for rest.

It wasn't even that he wanted to get his way, or didn't want to give Dean the time to think up a more convincing argument. At this point, he was just fighting to fight. Something that his father and other people had accused him of doing all the time when he was younger.

"All right," Dean agreed, shrugging unconcernedly. "If you wanna spend the rest of the day in pain, I can't force you not to. But you are basically proving my point for me about you being stubborn."

"Just keep your word and stop acting like I'm some kind of fragile idiot you have to protect," Sam said. "And I'll lay down."

"So show me you're not an idiot and you don't need to be protected," Dean said, and Sam really resented how reasonable his voice sounded. "Do another hunt with me and _don't_ get beat up."

"Even if I do, will you be satisfied?" Sam asked. "Or will you just come up with another excuse?" It looked like Dean was about to reply, so Sam talked over him. "You're just so freaking overprotective that - I'm not even sure you see me as a person. You never seem to remember that I've actually got years of hunting experience, or that I spent the last eight years wrangling monsters. Not just sitting around feeling sorry for myself."

"So d'you want me protecting you, or don't you?" Dean asked him. "You seem really pissed about it, but you're also pissed that I ran off last night instead of sticking around and keeping that ghoul from pulling your hair. Make up your mind."

"If that was all he did, you shouldn't be so against me doing the First Trial," Sam said.

Instead of responding right away, Dean ran his free hand over his hair. Frustration flickered across his face.

"Okay," he said after a little bit. "I know that this is probably gonna make you go nuclear, especially 'cause of how bitchy you're being right now. But I'm starting to wonder if you should even do the Trials."

Sam would've liked to prove Dean wrong by _not_ going nuclear or being bitchy, but what he'd just said triggered such a visceral knee-jerk reaction in him that it was damn near impossible for him to keep his anger in check. That probably would've been true even if he hadn't been exhausted and hurting.

"What the hell're you talking about?" he demanded. He would've shaken his head if he hadn't been afraid that would make him throw up. "This is _closing the gates of Hell,_ Dean. Getting rid of all demons, forever. Or at least making them easier to deal with. Not to mention Hell itself. And don't try and tell me demons aren't that big of a problem. We can't go east 'cause that part of the country's crawling with them, and not even you know why. And we've been driving since five because some got too close for comfort."

Sam had only been in bed for a few hours when Dean came back to the room from burning ghouls. He'd been in the middle of a R.E.M. cycle, dreaming hazily of rotting bodies and ragged holes in the ground and fire, so when Dean shook him awake, he was too out of it to make sense of what he was saying right away. He could tell that he was smudged with dirt and smelled like smoke from the cleanup in the cemetery, and that was about it. Eventually, though, he woke up fully, understood that Dean had sensed a couple demons within a ten-mile radius, and started packing so they could leave.

He'd been quietly panicking about the demons sensing Dean, too, until Dean put his mind at ease. They were low-level, he was a Knight. If he didn't want them to know where he was, they wouldn't until they were almost on top of him. That was why they hadn't had a problem before now, and this was probably just a coincidence. But they still needed to put some distance between themselves and those other demons.

By the time they got in the car, Sam had remembered Dean's promise to talk about his hair and the First Trial today. He brought it up, and they'd been fighting ever since.

"Yeah," Dean said, "I know." Sam's victory was short-lived as he continued: "But we've been acting like this is the only possible solution to the demon thing, and maybe it's time we pulled our heads out of our asses."

"What the hell're you talking about?" Sam repeated. It felt like there was sand between the backs of his eyeballs and his sockets, and he was ready to pick apart whatever bullshit explanation Dean offered. No matter what it was.

"We don't even know that the Trials are gonna work like they're supposed to," Dean told him. His voice was oddly quiet. Sam got the sense that he was reluctantly admitting something that'd been bothering him for a long time, something he'd tried to ignore. "After all, nobody's ever done 'em before. Obviously." He threw his free hand up in the air again. "Or, hell, even worse - maybe somebody _has._ And they didn't do crap. Or fucked things up even more."

"Your Prophet got them off a Word of God," Sam pointed out. "The demon Tablet."

"Yeah, I've been thinking about that, actually," Dean said. "He could've read it wrong. You've obviously never seen a Prophet at work before, but it's like watching somebody try to drill a hole in their own head. It hurts. Prophets are born being able to read Enochian, they're the only people who can, but their brains _still_ aren't wired for it 'cause they're human. I think it's got something to do with the whole Fall of Man thing, original sin...whatever. Not the point."

Sam was annoyed by his own urge to take notes."

"God could've gotten it wrong, too," Dean went on. "He didn't make demons, or Hell - Lucifer did. So I don't know how well He would've understood us when he wrote that Tablet to...to put the universe in order or whatever."

"Dictated," Sam said, tightly.

"Excuse me?" Dean asked.

"God didn't write His Words. He dictated them to Metatron. Angelic scribe, Voice of God."

Dean drew in a deep, slow breath. "Right. 'Cause that's what's important right now. That's what we should be focusing on. _Thank you_ for correcting me, Sam."

"I wouldn't have to if you just got your lore right," Sam replied, turning to look out the window.

"Okay," Dean said. "How's this for lore? God's a huge asshole. Have you seen anything, in your whole life, that makes you think He wouldn't put a fake or - or downright _bad_ fix-all for demons in one of His Words, just to dick with us?"

Sam didn't answer. He thought about telling Dean that he'd clearly believed in it working enough to die for it. The words popped into his mind with a white burst of shock that made his headache worse, but he didn't say them. He'd already let out something he regretted once today. Dean let him stew for a while before breaking the silence again.

"Maybe it'd be different if the Trials were easy," he said. "But they're all nightmares. I remember. And I don't wanna risk you for something that isn't even a guarantee."

"Okay," Sam said. Oh, man, did his head hurt. He was actually starting to have a hard time thinking past the pain. "Right there. You don't wanna 'risk me.' You're talking like you own me, or you've got total control over me."

"I'll give you that," Dean said, exasperatedly. "And I'm sorry. But you keep talking like you're still working alone. Like you've only gotta worry about yourself." He went quiet, and when Sam looked away from the window and back at him, he saw Dean staring at him with his jaw set. "But that's not your life anymore, is it?"

"Are you saying we need to work on our relationship?" It came out more mocking than Sam had intended.

"Couldn't hurt." Dean shrugged. "That could be the root of all the problems we're having now. God knows I've always sucked at the monogamy thing, and you've got basically no experience. And it's only been a little over six months." He looked up at the top of the windshield, thinking to himself instead of focusing on the road. At least there was no real traffic. "But what I'm saying is that you're right. It's your decision. But you're gonna have to meet me halfway on some things. Like your hair, and getting in more practice for the both of us. That's just part of being a couple."

"I know." Sam could've said he didn't want to be a couple anymore, but even right now, that wasn't true.

"So." A gas station had come up without Sam noticing, and Dean pulled into the parking lot. Bringing the car to a stop next to one of the pumps, he pulled the keys out of the ignition, then sat back with his hands in his lap. He stared straight ahead. "What d'you wanna do?"

"I want to do the First Trial." Sam sucked in a breath and said the next part in an exaggeratedly deliberate tone. "What do I have to do to get you to help me with that?"

"I'll make it easy for you," Dean replied. "Lemme cut your hair and do another hunt with me. Then we can talk about it, _together_ , and decide whether or not we're ready."

"Fine." It wasn't a terrible plan.

"Good?"

"Yes."

Satisfied, Dean climbed out of the car and got busy putting gas in it. Sam closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat. He couldn't even put his head down because the back of it hurt so bad. His sinuses swam, the lump on his skull throbbing, and he groaned softly. A couple minutes later, he was startled out of his self-imposed darkness by his door being opened.

It was Dean. He must've gone inside the convenience store to pay for the gas, because he was holding a bag from it. He put it in Sam's lap, and the things inside were heavy and cold. Sam pulled one out and saw that it was a bottle of Gatorade.

"We resolved the issue," Dean said. He closed Sam's door, went around to his own side of the car, removed the gas nozzle, and climbed in. "That means you can start taking care of yourself now." He pointed to the bag. "There's a bottle of Advil in there, too. So drink, and medicate yourself, and then get in the back and rest."

"Okay." Sam surrendered with a sigh, cracking open the Gatorade. It was blue, and so cold it nearly hurt his teeth when he took a sip. He nursed it, holding it carefully so he wouldn't dump it all over himself, as Dean pulled out of the parking lot and got them back on the road.

Dean was driving with one hand again. The right one. Sam ignored it, focusing on drinking and how much he was looking forward to going back to sleep. He only saw it out of the corner of his eye when Dean swapped his right hand out for his left and reached across the space between the two of them. He swallowed his mouthful of Gatorade prematurely as he started palming him through his jeans, and had to struggle not to cough.

"What're you doing?" he asked, clearing his throat. It wasn't like it was uncommon for them to have sex after they finished fighting. Actually, even though Sam had, as Dean put it, "basically no experience" with relationships, he didn't think it was uncommon for a lot of couples. Usually, though, it didn't happen this fast. Or while Dean was driving.

"I heard once that coming can help with a headache," Dean replied. "Relieves tension, releases happy chemicals." He looked over at Sam. "Don't tell me you don't need it. You've basically got a migraine going on right now, I know. And you won't let me heal you, so..."

"Are you really gonna jerk me off while you're driving?" Sam asked. He wasn't sure he was ready to be done fighting with Dean. He was irritated by the sudden intimacy and didn't want to be touched, but couldn't stop himself from pressing up slightly against Dean's hand as he rubbed him.

"I can do it," Dean assured him. "Trust me. I'm great at multitasking. And only road head's dangerous. Road handjobs are fine."

Sam would've thought that he felt too bad right now to get horny, but his body was responding to Dean anyway, dick swelling and hardening inside of his jeans. Even as his thighs unconsciously spread and a fast breath hissed into him, he reached down with his free hand and grabbed Dean's wrist. Dean immediately stopped moving.

"Want me to stop?" he asked quietly.

"...no," Sam decided after thinking for a couple of seconds. He let go of Dean's wrist, screwed the cap back on his Gatorade, and set it aside for the moment. They'd done it twice yesterday, so his appetite for sex was pretty much satisfied. His appetite for Dean wasn't, though. He was familiar with masturbating to cure a headache, too, although he'd read it rather than hearing about it, and he guessed that he was willing to try it. But after the fight they'd just had, he didn't want to sit back and passively let Dean take care of him.

He nudged Dean's hand out of the way and opened his jeans, undoing the button and the zipper. Grabbing his hand again, he shoved it down inside his boxers, and Dean obligingly trailed his fingers around his steadily-growing length. As he pulled him out, just enough to get a better grip on him, Sam cupped his own balls through the layers of fabric they rested in. Dean chuckled softly, holding his cock like a joystick (that was actually a really good euphemism for a penis, Sam realized suddenly) and rubbing his thumb over the slit at the top, which had already begun to ooze precome.

"You're really taking charge, ain'tcha?" he asked. "Good for you."

"Want me to - to reciprocate?" Sam panted out, hoping Dean would say no. Doing this to himself was hard enough, with the pain that was currently splitting his skull down the center.

"Nah," Dean replied "I got you." He smiled through the windshield. "Just hope nobody drives by and looks in through your window."

"Hopefully this won't take too long." Sam braced the hand that wasn't full of sac against the roof of the car and closed his eyes.

There were times when it was more about the journey than the destination for him. When he wanted to draw it out and really enjoy it. This wasn't one of them. He just wanted to finish, so he pulled out all the stops and did everything he'd learned he liked. Tugged and squeezed gently at his balls, angled his hips in a certain way, ground his ass (which, with all the prostate orgasms he'd been having lately, had become an erogenous zone) against the leather seat. Dean was stroking him, and he bucked softly into his hand. He was always surprised by how good Dean's calluses felt against the sensitive skin of his cock. The friction was incredible. And when Dean took his hand away halfway through and spat into his palm, that kept it from getting to be too much.

About five minutes in, Sam blew out a breath and dropped his head back, picking up the pace with his hips and hand in an effort to reach the finish line. He'd flatlined. It felt good, but the pleasure wasn't increasing. He was right on the edge of orgasm, but didn't know how to get over.

"C'mon, baby," Dean coaxed him. His voice, low and rough, sent a hot pulse through Sam's core. "Come for me, Sammy."

That was exactly what Sam had needed. He was coming a few seconds later, grunting under his breath, covering Dean's hand in sticky whiteness. It was good, better than he'd expected, the sudden flood of pleasure even making his legs tremble a little. The best part, though, came in the seconds immediately following his climax: his headache got better. The pain dulled until it was something approaching tolerable. Sam sighed with abject relief and relaxed into his seat, resting with his eyes still closed until Dean pulled over.

Sam cleaned himself and Dean's hand up with tissues, then finished his Gatorade and took three Advil. Before climbing into the back seat, he leaned over and tentatively kissed Dean.

"Thanks," he said. "It did help. A lot. And..." He hesitated. "Sorry. For all the stuff I said earlier."

"'S okay," Dean responded. "Sorry I called you stupid." As Sam got settled in the back seat, folding his jacket up near his head to use as a pillow, he glanced over his shoulder and said, "I"ll wake you up once we're a couple states away, and I find a good motel. Then we can look for a hunt."

"So I've got that to look forward to - great." Sam closed his eyes.

* * *

 **Thanks to my editor, sweetyaoi!**


	7. Chapter 7

_I've had a lot of people ask me why I wear my hair so long. Seriously, a lot. Ellen, Jo, and Ash asked about it when I was first growing it out. Garth and Charlie asked. Other hunters ask when they come by to drop something off or pick something up. If they've seen me before, they comment on how long it's getting, and they don't sound very happy about it._

 _A guy actually gave me a lecture today. Either he didn't give me his name or I forgot it. He gave me a box of what I'm guessing are pixies, and those are going to be a total pain in the ass to study, since I can't see them. He used to be a zookeeper, which I guess is close to what I do. He said the men weren't allowed to have long hair at the zoo and the women had to tie theirs back, so they couldn't get caught or grabbed. I usually do tie my hair back when I'm working, but he wasn't impressed. He told me to cut it at least ten times before he left._

 _I'm not going to cut it. I don't have to. There is no grand reason why I've grown it out almost to my shoulders. I just like it, and I think I look good._

 _Dad never let it get past my ears when he was alive because it didn't fit with the life. His words. I'm not in the life anymore and he's gone, so there's no reason to chop it off._

 _\- Personal journal of Sam Winchester_

* * *

Sam watched with mounting dread as the tools were laid out, one by one, on the table in front of him. A set of clippers, fresh out of the box and with a brand-new battery installed under the glossy black case. A comb. A pair of scissors, also new. A squirt bottle full of water. A towel. A ruler, for some unfathomable reason. Dean dropped the bag he'd pulled it all out of and started coming around the table. Sam leaned away from him.

"I changed my mind," he said.

"You don't get to change your mind," Dean said. "This was part of the deal. You already promised."

"Let's compromise," Sam said. "I'll put it in a ponytail. Every day. I'll do gel again. I'll wear a - a headwrap."

"Not the same," Dean told him, putting a heavy hand on his shoulder. Sam had actually been thinking about getting up, but he couldn't now. "C'mon, Sammy. It's just a haircut. Don't be a little bitch about this." His hand tightened a little, and he warned, "Don't make me hold you in this chair with my mind. 'Cause I can do it, and I will, but neither of us will enjoy it. Just take it like a man."

Fully aware that Dean would make good on that threat if tested, Sam stayed put, although his mouth was feeling drier by the second. It'd been one thing to promise Dean he could cut his hair in the car yesterday, when it'd been looking more and more like he wasn't even going to let Sam hunt anymore, much less start the Trials. It was another entirely to get out of the shower and find Dean getting ready to actually do it. Especially since he'd been laying down plastic trash bags to catch the hair, making it look like he was preparing for a murder.

"But you've done this before, right?" Sam asked. Dean, apparently satisfied he wasn't about to bolt, took his hand off him and reached for the towel.

"Only about a million times," Dean replied as he draped the towel around Sam's shoulders and made sure the ends of his hair weren't tucked underneath. "I've been cutting my own hair since I was about ten."

Sam twisted his head to look up at him. At his hair, specifically. It wasn't a bad cut. If he absolutely had to have short hair, he guessed he wouldn't mind having something like it. Cutting your own hair had to transition over to cutting other people's (Sam assumed; he'd been having Garth trim him for the past seven years, never having gotten the hang of it himself), and Dean would've done it for about twenty years before he died.

Before he died. Sam had been relaxing some, but when he thought that, something clicked for him and his anxiety levels started rising again.

"Did you cut hair in Hell?" he asked. Dean gave him a "what do you think?" look that probably could've made his hair fall out all on its own, if it'd been any more withering. "Well, how 'bout since you've been back?"

"Course not," Dean told him, recovering quickly from how insulted he'd been. "It doesn't grow anymore." He smirked at Sam. "I'm dead."

"Right," Sam said. "So it's been _two thousand years_ since you cut anybody's hair."

Dean had been moving to pick up the comb and scissors, but that made him stop and think. He looked down at Sam and, unfazed by how intensely he was pretty sure he was staring at him, gave a casual shrug.

"Closer to fifteen hundred than two thousand," he said. "But yeah."

"I think I wanna go to a barber," Sam said.

"If you really wanna waste the money, you can do that next time," Dean said, grabbing the comb and scissors. "'Cause there's gonna be a next time pretty soon. A 'do this short needs a lot of maintenance to look good." He gestured to his own hair. "Today, though, I got this."

"Are you sure?" Sam involuntarily leaned away from him again as he approached. Dean must have had even less patience for him than usual today, because an invisible force suddenly grabbed him, made him straighten up, and held him in place. It wasn't painful or even particularly rough, but it did shock the words out of him for a couple seconds. "'Cause I'd be just fine going to a salon. Or a beauty school."

"You don't think I can do at least as good a job as a beauty school student?" Dean asked him, spreading his hands. "That's actually kind of insulting." Holding the tools, he moved to stand behind Sam, the plastic bags on the floor crunching under his boots. "Seriously, Sam. I haven't forgotten how to do this. It's like riding a bike." He must've transferred either the comb or the scissors to his other hand, because there was a _click_ of metal against plastic and then he touched Sam's damp hair with an empty hand. "If you'd just trust me and stop wiggling around, I could let you go and just focus totally on your hair."

"Okay," Sam said. "I trust you." He was sure Dean could feel how uneasy he still was, but the telekinetic grip on him relaxed anyway. As Dean picked up a piece of his hair, one near the back, he reminded himself that it was just that. Hair. It'd grow back, and getting rid of it was a small price to pay to close the Gates of Hell. And to get a top-tier demon to help him, too. "Hey, shouldn't I be sitting in front of a mirror?"

"Only mirror we've got's in the bathroom, and it's a little cramped for this," Dean pointed out. The blades of the scissors met through Sam's hair with a wet-sounding _snip_ , and the ends pattered onto the plastic. A chill ran down his spine, but he didn't flinch, which he was a little proud of himself for. "You can take a look as soon as I'm done and tell me if you want me to make any changes." Another _snip_. "Speaking of which, I haven't even asked you what you want."

"I don't really care," Sam replied. "Just so long as it looks good and you don't, like, buzz it."

"I won't," Dean assured him. "The clippers are just to clean up your neck and sides." Sam could feel him using the comb now, still snipping busily away and letting the hair fall onto the plastic. "Hey, I could give you a faux hawk. Y'know, shaved sides, longer on top?"

"Uh, yeah, that's okay." Another benefit of cutting his hair, Sam could grudgingly admit, was that he'd be harder to recognize. He didn't need Dean to give him a style that made him stick out even more than he did with long hair.

"It looks better than it sounds, trust me," Dean said. "And the less hair you've got, especially on the sides and back, the safer you're gonna - " He abruptly stopped talking, at almost exactly the same time he cut off another piece of hair. Sam got a bad feeling right away.

"What?" he asked. When Dean didn't answer immediately, he let an edge creep into his voice. "What is it, Dean?"

"Whoops," Dean replied, which did less than nothing to put Sam at ease.

"What d'you mean, 'whoops'?" Sam demanded, starting to twist in his chair to glare up at Dean. Dean stopped him with a hand on the back of his neck.

"Calm down," Dean said. "I can fix it."

"Fix what?" Sam started struggling against Dean's hand again. He didn't want to glare at him anymore. He wanted to get up, go into the bathroom, and take a look at what he'd done. Dean clamped down on him with his telekinesis again, though. "What'd you do?"

"You won't even be able to tell when I'm done." Dean took his hand off Sam and started cutting his hair again, much faster this time. Sam couldn't tell for sure, of course, but it felt like he was taking it off at different lengths. He suddenly stopped again above his right ear. "Crap!"

"Now what?" Sam demanded.

"It was your fault," Dean said. "If I hadn't been distracted making you stay put for five goddamn minutes, I wouldn't've screwed up."

"Oh, _my_ fault?" Sam asked disbelievingly, a second before he realized that Dean had just admitted to screwing up. "Let go of me. You can at least let me see how bad it is."

"No," Dean said, and Sam could literally hear the stubbornness in his voice. He didn't release his hold on him, or even let him struggle beyond flexing his muscles. Sam might have started to get a little scared if he hadn't been so angry. "I told you. I can fix it."

"The more you say that, the less I believe it," Sam retorted. "And I didn't even really believe it to begin with."

"Don't be a dick." Dean was cutting his hair again, sounding frustrated. Every time the scissors closed, Sam's skin crawled, but it wasn't like there was anything he could do about it. He couldn't move any part of his body but his eyes and his mouth, so he glared at the table. "That's what you're always telling me, right? I'm good at this. Sure, I made a couple mistakes, but it's gonna look fine just as soon as I'm done." After making a cut near Sam's temple and sending dark brown hair raining down past his face and into his lap, he faltered again. Sam sucked in a deep breath. "Might take a little while, though."

"Great," Sam said as sarcastically as he could manage, which was very. There wasn't much he could do at the moment, though, besides sit there, silently fuming, and flinch a little every time Dean swore under his breath or sighed in exasperation. It was just hair, he kept reminding himself. But that calmed him down less with each mistake that Dean made.

Every so often, he asked, "Can you just let me go look? Seriously," or "Could you maybe stop butchering me?" Each time, he was met with the same stony "No."

Dean's psychic grip on him gradually loosened to the point where he could fidget in his seat and tap his fingertips testily against his thigh. He wasn't sure if he was doing it on purpose or if his concentration was just slipping. Either way, he snapped at him every time he moved, and blamed that for the most recent damage he'd done to his hair.

Eventually, Dean just...stopped. Stopped cutting, stopped combing, and stopped bitching at Sam. Sam was able to look over his shoulder to see that he'd lowered the scissors and comb. When he moved his head, it felt lighter, and his hair didn't whisk against his neck. It wasn't supposed to now that it was shorter, but he took it as a bad sign anyway.

Sam let the silence stretch on for nearly a minute, then asked, "Well?"

"Shut up," Dean replied. "I'm just figuring out what to do."

"Thought you said you could fix whatever you did."

"I _can_ ," Dean responded fiercely. "I'm just..." Another long pause. "Not quite sure how to do it."

"All right, that's it." Sam struggled against Dean's weakened psychic hold for the first time in a while. He was expecting the same result, but this time, either he broke Dean's grip or he just let him go. "You're done. And I'm going to the bathroom to see just _what_ you did."

"Fine." As Sam got up, dumping hair out of his lap and onto the floor, he saw Dean dramatically spin away from him. "It's not finished, though, so of course it's gonna look bad."

Sam didn't even bother saying that it was at least finished being worked on by Dean as he made a beeline for the bathroom. His head felt much lighter than he was used to, sans the piles of hair that littered the plastic Dean had put down. And that wouldn't've been so worrying on its own, but he could also feel a breeze against exposed parts of his scalp, and little sprigs waving merrily as he speedwalked. He braced himself for a disaster, but still wound up shocked into paralysis when he finally got in front of the bathroom mirror.

He gripped the yellowed laminate countertop with both hands, knuckles aching from the strain, and stared blankly as he tried to process. It hadn't even occurred to him to turn on the light, but what filtered in from the room was more than enough to see by.

It was just hair. He knew that. It didn't really matter, and it'd grow back.

But it was _his_ hair, and Dean had _ruined_ it.

Sam's first thought was that he looked like Cynthia. Angelica's doll in the _Rugrats_ cartoons he'd grown up with. He dismissed that a second later, though, because it wasn't entirely accurate. His head was still mostly covered with hair. Mostly. The problem was that it was just all different lengths, from nearly as long as it'd been to begin with to short, stiff stubble. Sections that weren't long enough to lay flat or short enough not to be noticeable stuck out at all angles, trembling as he sucked in breath after deep breath in an effort not to completely lose it. To make it all one uniform length, it'd have to be shaved practically down to the skin.

It looked like he'd stuck his finger in a light socket, right after getting run over by a lawnmower.

Sam raised a hand to his head and ran it over the whole mess. It even felt bad, with all the opposing lengths. The bristles. The rough cuts where Dean must have been hurrying. There was also a lot of loose hair up there that hadn't sifted down yet, but that problem was so easily fixed compared to all the others that Sam barely noticed it.

A sound outside the bathroom somehow registered, and Sam dropped his hand and turned his head to see Dean standing a couple yards away from the door. He must've put down the tools, because his arms were folded over his chest and his hands were empty. He also had an expression on his face so sheepish it almost looked exaggerated.

"Are you really that upset about it?" he asked. Dean was the empath, not him, so Sam just raised both eyebrows, practically to his jagged-feeling hairline. Dean winced a little, then grunted. "Ooh."

"Gonna make fun of me now?" Sam demanded. He hadn't intended for it to come out as sharp as it did, but he'd rather be angry than on the verge of tears. Dean really wouldn't be able to resist then. "Add some insult to injury?"

"No," Dean said, then surprised Sam by adding, "I get it, actually."

Sam stared at him, sure that there was more to the story than that. So after a few seconds, Dean sighed heavily, then elaborated.

"I told you how pissed Alastair was that I went looking for my old body," he began. It sounded like it was going to be a story of a decent length, which Sam wasn't exactly in the mood for, but he stayed quiet and listened anyway. "And how much work I put into fixing it up. You got why. Other demons didn't, of course, but they figured out that the quickest way to get under my skin - literally - was by messing it up, either out of the blue or when I was training with one of 'em." He grimaced at the memory. "Pissed me off like you wouldn't believe when they ripped my lips off, or caved my skull in, or popped one of my eyes out. And of course I wasn't hardly ever allowed to kill them. So I get it."

Sam didn't say anything. Dean shrugged, maybe a little too forcefully.

"If you need the moral of the story spelled out for you," he said, "you wanna look how you think you should look. That's important. And it sucks when somebody messes it up. I shouldn't've kept going after I made that first mistake, and I probably shouldn't've even tried in the first place. Had no idea what I was doing anymore." His shoulders slumped, incrementally. The movement was so small that Sam probably wouldn't have even seen it if he hadn't been giving him his full attention. "I just...really thought I could do it."

"It's - okay," Sam said with difficulty. Dean just sort of squinted at him, so he repeated himself. It came out easier the second time. "It's okay."

"Is it really?" Dean asked, sounding very unconvinced.

"Yeah. It is." Sam meant it. He was still upset, and very confused about just how Dean had managed to mess him up as badly as he had, but he was also pretty sure he'd done his best on this. He didn't want him to stop doing things he'd been good at when he was human just because this one hadn't worked out. After all, it wasn't like he'd actually hurt him. And he'd really, really needed a haircut. "Thank you for trying."

Dean let out a disbelieving little chuckle at that, so Sam closed the distance between them. Dean watched him warily, like he was afraid he was gonna start spouting an exorcism ritual, but Sam just put his arms around him and tucked his mess of a head in beside Dean's. A second later, Dean returned the hug, and Sam struggled not to wince as dozens of hot little pinpricks lit up all over his torso. He had a lot of hair down his shirt.

"Sorry," Dean mumbled into his ear. Sam appreciated the apology, and him admitting he was wrong. He knew it had to be tough for him to set his pride aside...something he could fully relate to.

"It's okay," Sam repeated. "Don't suppose you could regrow my hair with your demon mojo, though?"

"Sorry," Dean said again, and Sam sighed. "Doesn't really work that way."

"Yeah...I didn't think so." He kind of wanted to know why it didn't work that way (could Dean not regenerate dead tissue? Would he have to make Sam age to make his hair grow?), but asking Dean researcher-type questions seemed to annoy him, so he just kept it to himself.

"I _can_ take you to somebody who actually knows how to cut hair, though," Dean told him, breaking the hug and pulling back so he could look up at him. "I'll go out and scout around for a place that takes walk-ins. You hungry I could get you lunch while I'm at it."

It was a little early for lunch, seeing as Sam had just had breakfast before getting in the shower. So he shook his head. "That's okay."

"D'you want...I could blow you," Dean said seriously. His arms were still loosely around Sam, but one hand crept to his front, sneaking under his shirt to rest on the buckle of his belt. "Apology BJ. Lemme blow you."

Even though that was about the least romantic offer for oral sex Sam'd ever received, he was still tempted. He couldn't take Dean up on it, though. It wouldn't feel right. He got why he was being so eager to please, but he'd already forgiven him. No need to keep him on the hook.

"No," he said. "I'd appreciate it if you got me a hat, though. To cover up... _this_ on the way to the hair place." He gestured to his head. "Dandelion. How'd you even - ?"

"I don't know," Dean said, throwing up his hands and turning away. He didn't comment on Sam bastardizing his Knight name as he headed for the door; maybe he though he deserved it. "I'm not sure how, either."

* * *

 **Thanks to my editors, sweetyaoi and TookMeASecond!**


	8. Chapter 8

_Demons are easily one of the most dangerous monsters you'll face. They're intelligent, they can be anyone, and even the lowest tiers have psychic powers, like teleportation and telekinesis. Then there's the fact that, unlike a lot of other things, they kill purely for fun, not for food._

 _It used to be a hunter could go years without coming across a demon. Demon cases were rare, and possession cases even rarer. Hell's become more active recently, though. Crossroads deals and demon activity are both way up, and there are more and more high-level demons around. No one is really sure why, but on the small scale, it doesn't matter._

 _I would not recommend going into your first demon hunt solo, no matter how much research you've done or how many other hunts you've managed on your own. I can't understate the importance of an experienced partner, even if you're only after a crossroads demon. Which will be bound by more rules and regulations than a black-eyed demon, and so ostensibly easier to hunt._

 _Nothing's ever really_ easy _when it comes to demons, though. You should also be aware of your limits. If there are two or more demons working in tandem, leave. If it seems more powerful than it should be, leave. If it has white or yellow eyes, definitely leave. We'll look into the different castes of demons and how to distinguish them later._

 _There's no shame in calling for help, or just walking away from something you know you can't handle. Especially demons._

 _-_ Demons and Other Biblical Monsters, _Sam Winchester_

* * *

 _Walk-ins WELCOME!_ the front door of the barbershop proclaimed in large white letters. The glass was frosted and the same went for the large front window, so Sam couldn't see inside. He turned to Dean.

"So you checked this place out?" he asked him. "It looks good? Clean?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, it looks fine. And when I was here last, there was a guy coming out with a great haircut." He stepped forward and pushed the door open. "At this point, I would've thought you'd be okay with anybody who isn't me fixing your hair."

Sam grunted noncommittally as he followed Dean in. The place was long and narrow, and it certainly looked clean. It was well-lit, with a checkerboard pattern on the floor, jars of Barbicide at every station, and mirrored walls. It smelled good, too: soap and something herbal-y, maybe a certain kind of shampoo. Only a few of the chairs were occupied, and an older guy without a customer approached as soon as they entered.

"Hey, there," he said, and offered a hand for Dean to shake, then Sam. He had a firm grip, his hand dry and cool. "I'm Jake. What can I do you for?"

Sam took a long, deep breath, then reached up to pull off the black stocking cap Dean had gotten him. It was cold enough that he didn't mind wearing it. He'd probably keep it even after he got his hair cleaned up.

As soon as that was off, Jake whistled, long and low. All the other barbers and customers in the shop turned to look, and Sam felt his face begin to heat up as brows rose and eyes widened.

"Oh boy," Jake said. "Lemme guess. Little one got at the scissors?"

"Something like that." Sam glanced at Dean, who scowled back.

"If it makes you feel any better, this isn't the worst case I've ever seen," Jake said, gesturing him towards a chair. Sam sank into it. As he draped a cape over him and fastened it at his neck, Jake paused. "It's close. But not the worst."

"Can you fix it?" Sam asked. At this point, a halfway-decent fix was all he wanted.

"Well, I can't make your hair grow back, but I'll definitely do what I can with what I have," Jake replied. Sam watched in the mirror in front of him as he put his hands on his head, tugging on one of the okay-er sections of his hair, one about two inches long. "So what I'll do is cut most of it back to this length, then I'll show you how to style it to cover up these really short spots." He pointed to an area where Dean had gotten down almost to his scalp.

"Okay. That sounds good."

"Your friend can go sit over by the door, if he wants." Jake looked at Dean, who turned slowly around and headed for the small waiting area near the entrance. "You washed your hair recently?"

"Yeah, just this morning."

"We can go ahead and get started, then." Jake leaned around Sam in order to grab a spray bottle off his station, then began misting his hair with it. The exposed parts of his scalp tingled. "So. I've never seen you boys before. You new in town?"

"Just passing through," Sam said. "But yeah."

Jake grunted. "Well, you couldn't've picked a worse time, I've gotta be honest."

That took Sam by surprise. "Why d'you say that?"

"Well." Sam could hear the blades of Jake's scissors meeting even above the gentle murmur of the other customers having conversations with their barbers, and he had to fight not to flinch even though he could feel that he wasn't taking off nearly as much as Dean had. "I'm not a gossip, understand? I'm not gonna tell you anything you couldn't find out yourself by picking up a copy of the local paper. But we've got a killer on the loose."

"Oh, wow," Sam said, instincts immediately perking up at that. He couldn't see Dean without moving his head, but he was sure he could hear, and that he was having the same reaction. Murders were ordinary, sometimes. Most of the time. But sometimes they weren't, and if there'd been anything weird about this one that hinted at something supernatural, Sam expected Jake to tell him. "Really?"

"Yep," Jake replied. "Local family. Father owned the hardware store; he's missing. Mother taught at the high school two towns over, and they had three kids. Oldest just started middle school, youngest was barely outta diapers." A comb ran through Sam's mutilated hair, pulling the wet ends free and sending them raining down on his plastic cape. Jake had to have noticed the scabby area on the back of his head where hair had been pulled out, and the lump on the side, seeing as he was careful about both of them, but he didn't say anything. "All dead."

"Oh my god." Sam didn't think he was very good with kids. But it was still like a shot to the gut when they died, every time. "The - just the kids, or the mom, too?"

"The mom, too," Jake said grimly. He didn't sound like he was enjoying relaying this information. More like it was a duty he held himself to. "Butchered."

"So...it was the dad?"

Jake sighed heavily. Looking in the mirror in front of him, Sam saw him shaking his head.

"I've known Frank - that's his name - since kindergarten," he said, "and I couldn't ever imagine him doing that kinda thing to anyone, least of all his own family. But...well, it don't look good, do it?"

"No," Sam admitted, "I guess it doesn't."

He wished he could tell Jake it probably hadn't been Frank who'd done it, but he didn't. It was more likely something else had killed Frank's family and taken him. Sam just didn't know what, since grown men weren't usually in high demand for anything, no matter the creature.

He also might've been possessed. So there was that, too.

"That's awful," Sam sympathized, after he'd realized nearly a minute had passed with nothing but the snipping of scissors.

"Sure is," Jake agreed. "Whole town's torn up over it. You don't come back from something like this. And even if you do, it takes years. Decades, maybe."

He fell silent for a while, focusing on Sam's hair. Looking in the mirror, Sam couldn't help but notice how much better it was, which drained some tension out of his shoulders that he hadn't even known he was still holding onto. Most of the sprigs were gone, at least.

"As if that wasn't bad enough," he said after a while, "we've had a whole rash of dead cows. Not enough to really hurt, but this is a cattle town. Makes people uneasy."

Sam made eye contact in the mirror, asking, "How'd they die?"

"Badly," Jake told him. "Ripped wide open. Must be wolves. We're a ways from Yellowstone, but they've got so many of the damn things there, and I've heard how they roam." He smirked humorlessly down at Sam's hair. "Hell. Or maybe it's Frank."

"Have you had any lightning storms around here lately?" Sam asked, the pieces falling into place for him.

"Oh...well, I don't know," Jake said. "Although, now you mention it, I guess we have. I remember thinking it was unusual 'cause we usually get 'em in the summer, not fall." He began to comb Sam's hair again. "Why d'you ask?"

"Just curious."

"Mm."

Sam could tell the old barber didn't believe him.

Jake finished cutting his hair. He blew it out with a hairdryer, put some gel in it, then combed it artfully. Sam watched closely, trying to memorize his movements so that he could do it himself later, and couldn't pinpoint the exact moment it stopped looking awful and started looking good. It definitely happened, though.

Jake gave Sam a hand mirror and spun him around so that he could see the whole thing, including the back. A close-cropped fade led up into hair about the same length as Dean's, but styled in a wave rather than standing up and forward, to hide the damage Jake hadn't been able to fix with his scissors. It was a different cut from what he'd had when he was younger. More flattering.

He was surprised by how dark it looked, something he hadn't noticed back in the motel room. He'd always been a dark brunette, but his hair had lightened in the sun, just like everybody's did. This short, it was nearly black, no sign of any of the subtle hints of red, gold, and caramel he'd gotten used to.

His face looked different without hair framing it. He hardly recognized himself, but that was a good thing. Other people wouldn't be able to, either.

"Look good?"

"Yeah - great." Sam handed the mirror back with a smile and got to his feet, pausing to let Jake take the cape off him. "Thanks. How much do I owe you?"

"Fifteen even," Jake replied, walking up to the waiting area and the small front desk beside it. Sam followed, blinking as Dean noticed them and stood up. He wasn't super familiar with haircuts or anything, but he felt like that was low even for a cheap one.

"Are you sure?" he asked uncertainly, and Jake snorted.

"Your hair was a disaster," he said bluntly. "All I did was clean it up best I could. I'm not gonna charge you full price for that." He stepped behind the desk and Sam automatically reached into his pocket to grab his wallet. An invisible hand closed on his wrist, though, and he glanced over at Dean, who'd come up next to him and was pulling a twenty out of his own wallet.

"I got this," he mumbled, avoiding eye contact. Looked like he was still feeling guilty. To Jake, he said, "Keep the change. Thanks."

As they walked back out to the car, Sam kept moving his head back and forth, getting used to how light his head felt, to not feeling his hair swinging. The back of his neck was cold.

"So you feel better now?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam admitted. "I know it's dumb, but I really do."

"I told you it's not dumb," Dean replied. "I should've just brought you here in the first place."

"Well, now we know." Sam grabbed the handle on the passenger door, but didn't pull it open just yet, looking at Dean over the top of the car. "By the way. I don't suppose the cattle mutilations and lightning storms are because of you?"

Dean scowled at him. "Of course not. Unlike _some_ demons out there, I can control myself. I've got loads of self-control." He climbed into the car, and Sam followed him. "Plus, I'm a Knight. If I let myself go, you wouldn't have these ordinary, run-of-the-mill demon signs. You'd have, like..." He gestured wildly with one hand. "Rivers full of blood. Plagues of locusts." The car roared to life. "Everybody's firstborn dying."

Sam squinted at him. "I think I read about something like that happening once, but there definitely weren't any Knights of Hell involved."

"Writer must've left that part out, then, 'cause that's what happens." Dean backed out of the parking space. Once they were on the road, heading back to the motel, he looked at him. "Seriously, though. Does sound like there's a demon in the area, doesn't it?"

"Can you sense it?" Sam asked.

"No, but that doesn't mean anything," Dean replied. "Might be outta my range. Or if it's strong enough to make cows explode all on its own, it could be shielding itself from me...which'd be a problem, since that'd mean it knows we're here." It wasn't far from the barbershop to the motel, so they were already pulling into the parking lot. Dean brought the car to a stop right in front of their door, then killed the engine and gave Sam his full attention. "So, we got a couple options here. We can either get outta town, or we can stay put and hunt this thing."

Sam was honestly surprised that hunting it was even an option. He would've expected Dean to want to make tracks, no questions asked, as soon as he knew there was a demon around. Dean, picking up on that surprise, addressed it.

"I'm less worried about demons - 'specially just one low-ish demon, which is what this looks like - than I am about a lot of other monsters," he told him. "I know how to handle other demons. We ain't gonna get very far in the Trials if you don't get used to dealing with 'em, and this case basically just fell in our laps." He shrugged. "It's up to you, though. I wouldn't blame you, if you're not comfortable going after a demon for your second hunt."

"No," Sam immediately assured him. "I wanna do this. Three people are already dead and the vessel's life is gonna be ruined even if we manage to exorcise the demon. I wouldn't feel right walking away. Plus, like you said, it fell in our laps." They hadn't had time to look for another hunt since rolling into this tiny Idaho town. Sam had just been too tired last night and his hair had taken up most of this morning. "Let's just take care of this thing. Then...hellhounds."

Sam had been expecting Dean to object to that. He wasn't sure why, seeing as he was the one who'd made the new rules. It was a relief anyway, though, when he nodded in agreement.

"All right," he said, getting out of the car. "Hopefully this'll be a short one. Let's suit up and head down to the sheriff's office."

"Yeah." Sam followed suit, grabbing his fake FBI badge out of the glove compartment before closing the car door. As Dean unlocked their motel room, he flipped the leather cover open just to make sure the badge itself was still in there. Seeing his own picture, something occurred to him, and he frowned. "Oh. Shoot."

"What's the matter?" Dean glanced over his shoulder at him as he pushed the motel roomdoor open.

"I don't really look like my picture anymore," Sam said. "We're gonna have to get a new one."

Dean narrowed his eyes at the badge, then shrugged. "You're right, but we're not gonna worry about that 'til we're done here. Like I told you earlier, most people don't look too closely at it, and if anybody asks, just tell 'em the truth: you got a haircut." He waved Sam into the room, and Sam went. "It still looks like you. You've got plenty of identifying features besides your hair - like these." Cupping Sam's jaw, Dean thumbed one of his moles, the one to the left of his nose. Chuckling, Sam turned his head away from the touch with a smile. "At least your hair looks way more professional now."

"D'you like it?" Sam asked him, pulling the door closed behind them. It was hot and stifling in the room, the heater going full blast. Sam wasn't sure if Dean had turned it up, his human frailty in mind, or if it was just like that. "I mean, does it look good?" The question came out less casually than he'd wanted it to.

"It looks awesome," Dean told him. He turned away, heading for his duffel bag. "Way better than what I did to it...not that that's a high bar."

Sam sighed. "Dean, c'mon. I let it go. You're gonna have to - " He cut himself off abruptly when his phone began buzzing and jingling in his pocket. He pulled it out, expecting to see Garth's name. Instead, though, there was a number he didn't recognize. He hesitated to answer it.

"Well?" Dean asked him as his phone kept ringing in his hand.

"I don't know who it is," Sam replied.

"...so?"

Dean had died before caller ID had become commonplace, and even though Sam had done his best to explain it to him, he still didn't get why it was such a big deal. He had a point now, though; might as well try and figure out who was calling him. Reluctantly, Sam answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hey, bitch," the person on the other end of the line said cheerfully. Sam grinned.

"Charlie!" He'd been wondering when she was going to call him, since Garth had said she needed a new phone and he'd pass along Sam's number as soon as she got it. He might've been worried about not hearing from her if there hadn't been so much else to stress out about. "Hey! How are - wow, it's good to hear from you. How are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm okay," Charlie said. "Can't complain. I'm obviously not doing as well as _you_ , though - your leg's all fixed up, you're closing the Gates of Hell, _and_ you've got a hot demon boyfriend? Nice, Sam! About time you had some good luck."

Feeling a blush coming on, Sam turned away from Dean, able to tell from his wide grin that he could hear Charlie's side of the conversation just fine. "So Garth filled you in, huh?"

"He did," Charlie confirmed, "but I thought I'd check in with you myself, anyway. And tell you how, um...happy I am to have an explanation. Finally."

"I'm sorry," Sam said quietly. "I should've called a whole lot sooner than I did, and I know what happened with me has made things way harder for you guys."

"Sam?" Charlie asked. "Hey. Garth filled me in. So that means I know what you did, and why you did it. You did the right thing. Your life was in danger, and besides, closing Hell up forever is way more important than exorcising one Knight." Carefully, she added, "If it'd been me, though, I'm not sure I would've also gotten with that Knight..." and Sam laughed.

"Yeah," he said.

"Sooo...what's he like?" Charlie wanted to know.

"Well..." Sam left Dean laying out their suits on the bed and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Dean could definitely still hear him, but the illusion of privacy was better than nothing. "He's not like other demons. And I _know_ demons, you know I do. You do, too. He's got a really wide range of emotions. I've seen him feel guilty, and worry about me. He does that last one all the time."

"I'm not gonna ask if you think he could be faking it," Charlie said.

"It's always a possibility," Sam admitted, not pointing out how she'd basically just asked it anyway, "but no. I don't. I've seen demons act and lie before, but they can only keep it up for so long before their true nature comes out. I'm with him practically twenty-four-seven and he's...I don't know, kinda demon, kinda human the whole time."

"'Kinda demon'?" Charlie pressed, sounding concerned by that.

"Night before last, he literally shook the head off a ghoul," Sam explained.

"That'd beat you up and threatened to eat you from the edges in!" Dean suddenly yelled through the door. Sam took the phone away from his ear so Charlie could hear him.

"He's listening?" Charlie asked once Sam put the phone back to his face.

"Kinda hard for him not to."

"Sorry," Dean said. "Want me to leave?"

"You're fine," Sam told him. "I'm almost done. Could you put some salt rounds in the shotguns if there aren't already?" To Charlie, he said, "I'm sorry. We're hunting right now, but - god, am I glad you called."

"Me, too," Charlie said. "Glad I got to talk to you." A pause. "I really missed you." Sam felt another flicker of the familiar guilt. "I'll go ahead and let you go. Can I call back later?"

"Yeah," Sam agreed, making a mental note to save Charlie's number under her name as soon as the call ended. "I'd like that."

Charlie didn't hang up, though. Instead, after a long beat of silence, she said, "Garth told me you were gonna check in with all of us regularly. You better do that."

"I will," Sam promised. He'd said he'd try to do once a week. Mondays might be good.

"I'd really like to catch up with you in person sometimes, too," Charlie continued. "Meet your boyfriend...find out why you never told me you were into men..."

"You never asked!" Sam went and sat down on the closed lid of the toilet. "But..." He heard the room's door open and shut, and assumed Dean had gone outside to get weapons out of the trunk of the car. So he went ahead and admitted, "Dean's the first guy I've actually...y'know. Slept with."

Dean already knew, but Sam still felt more comfortable saying it when he knew he (probably) couldn't hear.

"Shut up. No way." Charlie sounded surprised. "Is...he gentle?"

"I mean, when I want him to be...d'you really want those kinds of details?" Sam asked her. "Especially over the phone?"

"Right. Sorry." She paused. "You know you can call me if you ever need anything, right?"

"I know," Sam replied. "Thanks. And I really would like to get together; I'm just busy right now, and I'm sure you are, too."

There was another silence, one that felt awkward to Sam. Then Charlie spoke up again.

"So, you aren't worried that he - " she began.

"No," Sam interrupted. He appreciated their concern, and he definitely understood it, and if the situation had been reversed and it'd been Garth or Jo or Charlie with a Knight of Hell for an SO, he likely would've had plenty of his own. All the same, he was getting tired of defending his relationship with Dean. "I'm not worried. Maybe I should be, but I'm not. And if anything ever happens, you'll be the first person I call. Or Garth. One of you, I promise."

Hoping Dean was still outside (the door hadn't opened again but he could've teleported back in), Sam leaned back against the tank of the toilet and put his free hand on the opposite bicep. "But for now, I feel perfectly safe with him. I know he's not gonna hurt me, and while he's around, it's pretty unlikely anything else is gonna hurt me, either."

"And he healed you," Charlie acknowledged.

"And he healed me," Sam agreed.

"Okay. I'm sorry." Sam listened for hints of insincerity in her voice, but couldn't find any. "Good luck with your hunt. I'll talk to you later."

"All right, Charlie," Sam replied. "Thanks for calling - again, it was great to talk to you."

He hung up and left the bathroom, creating a new contact with Charlie's name and number on his phone as he did. Dean came back into the room at almost the same time he finished, two sawed-offs broken over one arm and a battered, masking-taped box of ammo in his other hand.

"So we should have enough salt rounds for this hunt, but we better make more after we're done," Dean said, laying the weapons out on the bed next to their suits. "Your dad teach you how to do that?"

"I probably made most of the ones in that box you're holding." Sam nodded to it.

"Awesome." Dean turned to him. "How'd your talk with your friend go?"

"Fine," Sam answered, then smirked a little painfully. "But everyone still thinks you're out to screw me, and not in the good way."

"In their defense," Dean pointed out, "that does sound like something I'd do. Or any other demon." He stepped out of his shoes, then looked at Sam. "I promise I'm not, though."

"I know that," Sam replied, setting his phone aside for the moment and taking his own shoes off. "Why else d'you think I'm going on a demon hunt with you?"

Dean turned to look at him, smiling. It was so genuine it almost looked goofy, and he seemed to realize that at the same time Sam did, dropping the smile and looking quickly away again as if embarrassed.

"Speaking of that. You ready to go?"

"Just as soon as I get dressed." Sam picked up his suit jacket. "Like you said: let's hope this is a short one."


	9. Chapter 9

_They are more organized now than we have ever seen them before. Demon cases only pop up every once in awhile, we all know. They work alone. Crossroads demons and hellhounds are rare. We maybe see a Lord or a Prince once every hundred years._

 _But things are different now. There is a clear chain of command, and there are patterns. They are trying to take over our world. No one knows why, but it is up to all of us to be on the lookout._

 _What happens is that first, a scout or two moves into a new area that isn't completely overrun with demons yet. Keep an eye out for signs of a possession, and for murders. Demons love to kill and they use human blood to communicate. Ask the Winchester kid if you have any questions about that._

 _We do not know what the scouts are looking for, but other demons move in after they have been there for a while. Sometimes crossroads demons start making deals without being summoned. Sometimes it is just regular grunts. They possess people and occupy the area. Murders and rapes and all crimes go up. Sometimes the big boss comes through eventually. A Prince or a Lord. The place is a total loss if that happens._

 _Our best bet is to kill the scout before it calls in all its friends. There are some useful phone numbers at the end if you find one and do not think you can take it out alone. We are at war and we need everybody on board. If you aren't with us then you are against us, and that makes you as bad as a demon._

 _\- e-mail sent to multiple members of the American and Canadian hunting communities, Gordon Walker_

* * *

The first thing Sam pulled out of the evidence locker, after they'd flashed their fake badges and the sheriff had brought them back to it, was a large butcher knife, sealed in a plastic bag and labeled. "I'm guessing that's the murder weapon...one of them, at least." Next was a throw pillow that'd been stabbed through and stained with blood on one side, probably used as a shield by one of the victims. Then a hammer. Then, finally, a manila folder full of glossy crime scene photographs. "Here we go."

"So it was definitely a demon," Dean commented, picking up the knife Sam had set aside. Sam glanced at him as he walked over to the desk, seeing him lift the bag to his nose and take a deep sniff. "They washed all this stuff, but it still reeks of sulfur."

"Can you tell what kind it was?" Sam asked, hoping the sheriff didn't come back right then. He'd left to grab the report for them.

"Not by smelling."

"Then come over here and help me look at these pictures." Sam began to spread them out on the desk. The sheriff's department clearly hadn't used the latest camera or anything, but they'd been thorough, documenting what looked like the entire house. They'd also unflinchingly captured all three bodies from multiple angles, getting as much detail as possible. Sam let his eyes skate over those. "Maybe we'll find something."

Dean joined him at the desk, and Sam left him alone for a second to take the official report from the sheriff when he returned.

"Look at this," Dean said as Sam came back over to the desk, eyes fixed on one of the pictures. He'd swept most of the others to the side and some had wound up on the floor.

"What?"

In answer, Dean pointed at the photo. Sam looked, then grimaced. It was one of Frank's wife. She'd been savagely sliced open from clavicle to pubic bone, then rolled over so she was lying in a pile of her own shredded internal organs. Her open-mouthed rictus and bulging eyes indicated it'd all happened while she was still alive.

"Yeah?" Sam's eyes flicked away. Just because he'd seen worse didn't mean he wanted to look for any longer than he had to. Dean put a steadying hand on the small of his back. "What about her?"

"No, not her." Dean didn't sound all that bothered. " _That_."

Swallowing to ward off the creeping nausea, Sam forced himself to look past the corpse and focus on what Dean was pointing at. The bottom shelf of a bookcase was just barely visible in the corner of the picture, and something dark and vaguely cup-shaped was sitting on it. The lighting was bad and it was blurry, so Sam couldn't really make it out. He squinted and moved his face closer to the photo, which didn't help much.

"Is that...a vase?"

"It's an infernal goblet." Dean took his finger off the picture.

 _"Oh,"_ Sam blurted. Now that Dean had pointed it out for him, what he'd thought was dark glass was clearly black metal, and the fuzzy shadows coalesced into screaming faces. "So we know it was talking to other demons."

"Well, yeah, that's the basic thing," Dean agreed. "But these days, one demon in an area like this with a goblet? It's a scout."

Sam glanced at him. He was studying the other pictures intently. "Like...the one I killed outside my cabin?"

"Exactly." Dean tapped his nose. "The goal's to control as big an area as possible. Don't ask me why, I was in charge of a lot of it but nobody told me anything anyway." He grinned. "Guess they didn't trust me. We send in a grunt with some training and experience. He sends us intel for a few weeks or months, and has himself a little fun while he's at it, because why not?" He looked at the pictures again. "Usually we don't want 'em going hog-wild like this, but you can't trust most further than you can throw them. Case in point: Cory."

"Okay, I can see that." Sam nodded. "So we're dealing with a weaker demon for sure?"

"Oughtta be. But..." Dean's eyebrows drew together, and he took his hand off Sam's back as he dropped into the desk's cheap swivel chair. "That doesn't explain why I can't feel it if it's in the area, though. And I'm kinda wondering what a scout's doing this far west. I mean, I haven't been gone that long. They can't have pushed past the Great Lakes." He looked up at Sam and stated, "I'm starting to not like this very much, Sam. I gotta tell you."

Arms folded over his chest, Sam stared down at Dean. It was so obvious how good at this he was. The attention to detail, the reasoning, the caution...just so long as Sam ignored the mentions of leading an army from Hell and sensing other demons, he could see what Dean must have been like as a human hunter. It took him completely by surprise, although not in a bad way.

"What's that goofy look for?" Dean wanted to know.

"Nothing." Sam looked away. "Does this mean you wanna leave?"

"Nah." Dean picked up the picture again, the one with the goblet in it. "We both chose this hunt, and we're gonna see it through. We just gotta be careful." His eyes darted up to Sam's. "And make sure this thing doesn't call in reinforcements before we kill it."

"Maybe it doesn't have reinforcements." They hadn't discussed Hell's plans or movements much. Dean wasn't volunteering any information and Sam didn't want to risk bringing up bad memories. Tentatively, he asked, "Is every single demon involved in this, or are there still...rogue ones out there? Loners, doing whatever they want."

"You mean like me?" Dean asked with half a smirk. "Yeah, there are plenty, and they were a real pain in my ass back when I was a commander. But none of them would have one of these." He tapped the goblet again.

"All right," Sam conceded. "So I'm thinking we read this report and then go check out the crime scene." He shook the report, still in his hand, so that the many dozens of pages flapped. Dean eyed it like it was an exorcism rite. "We just need to skim it. I'll do it if you want me to."

"I'd sure appreciate it." Dean pushed himself to his feet. "Doubt the demon'll be at the house, but if we're lucky, it'll be close. Especially if the goblet's still there. It'd have to be using it as a home base then."

"That should probably be the first thing we look for, then," Sam noted. "But what if we don't find the scout and the goblet's not there anymore?"

"Then it'll be like looking for a needle in a haystack." Dean sighed. "Except worse, 'cause the needle's on the move and we're gonna be boned if it finds us before we find it. Can't even use a tracking spell 'cause we don't know the name." He shook his head, moving towards the door. Sam followed him. "But we'll burn that bridge when we come to it. I'll do my best to try and figure out where it is in the meantime."

* * *

"Figuring out where it is" involved, near as Sam could tell, a kind of meditation. Dean had to sit perfectly still, black eyes closed, in a quiet room, and focus entirely on his senses, scouring the area around them for any trace of demonic energy. The hope was that he'd be able to tell where the scout was, generally speaking, even if it was cloaking itself.

Sam was badly tempted to tease him about it. He ran now rather than meditating, himself, but the one time he'd brought it up, Dean had brushed it off as "hippie shit." But this was important and Sam had to read the sheriff's report, so he just stayed quiet.

They wound up on the bed, Dean sitting up against the headboard and Sam directly between his legs, leaning back against his chest. Dean's arms rested loosely around his waist as he paged through the report. It was comfortable, despite the fact that Sam was taller than Dean and Dean was essentially unconscious.

Dean breathed every once in a while (Sam guessed it was a reflex or something), and Sam felt the warm air on the back of his neck, ruffling the little hairs there that'd been buzzed short. It was an unfamiliar sensation, reminding him over and over again that his hair wasn't long anymore.

The sheriff's report was as thorough as the pictures had been, describing what'd been done to the victims in excruciating detail, but it didn't tell Sam anything that he didn't know already. He set it aside and twisted around to look at Dean. His eyes were still closed and his face was blank, so he must still be looking.

"This is probably the closest you're ever gonna get to sleep, huh?" Sam asked, aware Dean couldn't hear him. He laid back against him, resting his head on his shoulder and closing his eyes as he breathed in shampoo, laundry detergent, and an edge of sulfur. The rest of today was probably going to be tough. Might as well try to enjoy the moment.

It figured that Sam had just barely gotten comfortable when Dean suddenly jerked back to life. His arms tightened around Sam and he sat straight up, growling under his breath and shaking his head like he was trying to clear something out of it. Sam twisted free and turned to face him again, sitting down on the mattress a couple feet away.

"So did you find it?" he asked. Dean's eyes were open, and he had to blink a few times before the black finally flicked back into his pupils.

"Christ," he muttered. "I'm never gonna get used to how that feels." He glanced at Sam. "It's in town. Close by, actually. Couldn't narrow it down any more than that. Not sure if it's using runes or charms or its own powers or whatever, but it's shielded pretty good." He caught sight of the report, now sitting on the nightstand. "You find anything interesting in that?"

"No," Sam admitted. "At least we know our guy's here, though, right? We're better off now than we were an hour ago."

"Well, that's true," Dean agreed, "but I thought of something while I was doing demon radar." He'd taken off his overcoat and jacket, but was still wearing his FBI tie, shirt, and slacks. He started undoing the tie as he spoke. "We don't hide ourselves automatically. Even the thing I've got going on right now's a conscious effort on my part." Dean looked up at Sam, tossing his tie aside. "It's expecting somebody to be looking for it. Not hunters, either. Only angels and other demons and monsters can sense us like that."

"So...what're you saying?" Sam grabbed his backpack. "They're looking for you?"

"Either that or we've got an angel infestation," Dean replied with a shrug. "So I sure hope they're looking for me." He flashed a grin at Sam, but it didn't last long. "I figured they'd be keeping an eye out for me, with all the time and effort they put into making me. At the very least, I know Alastair's gonna wanna kill me himself." He unzipped his duffel bag and began to dig through it, frowning. "Why the hell do I have so many of your flannels?"

"'Cause you keep _taking_ them when you do laundry," Sam pointed out dryly. He was pretty sure Dean had tried to be sneaky, but he'd noticed.

"Oh, right." Dean handed a couple over, not looking the least bit sheepish. "I like how big they are. You're freaking huge, you know that?" Sam snorted softly and shook his head. "Anyway. With everything else going down, I seriously doubt they can afford to send any real heavy hitters after me. The ones I sensed back in Montana were probably trying to pick up my trail, and they didn't pack much of a punch. This one's gonna be the same." Dean shook out a crumpled T-shirt. "And even if it ain't specifically on the lookout for me, taking it out's the right thing to do. Which you're all about, aren't you?"

Sam glanced at Dean with a smirk and one raised eyebrow. "Don't try to pretend you're not looking forward to killing another demon." He found his knife and set it carefully aside.

"Make sure you don't forget that," Dean warned.

"I won't, don't worry."

Once they were both decked out in hunting-appropriate clothes, they headed for the crime scene. There was no point in waiting for dark. The victims' house was outside town, they had permission to go in, and if anybody had any questions, they still had their badges handy.

"You ready?" Dean asked Sam as he brought the car to a stop and killed the engine. "We might run into it here, after all."

"Course I am." Sam checked for the tenth time to make sure he had his demon-killing knife. He did, tucked inside his Carhartt. "One less demon in the world, one step closer to closing the Gates of Hell. Let's do this."

"That's my boy." Dean patted him approvingly on the shoulder as they got out of the car and headed up to the house. Standing on the wraparound front porch, Sam sliced through the police tape with the key the sheriff had given him, then unlocked the door.

Sam couldn't help it: he gagged as soon as he opened the door, nausea tightening his throat. The bodies had been cleaned out, of course, but he guessed a clean-up crew hadn't come through yet. So the blood and other fluids had been festering for a while now, soaking into the carpet and floorboards.

As Dean pointed out, though, it wasn't as bad as it could've been. "Good thing it's so cold out, huh? Imagine if this'd happened in August."

Once Sam'd had a chance to get used to the smell, they headed inside. Dean took them to the living room very first. He checked the bookcase that'd been in the picture while Sam stared down at the ugly brown stain in the middle of the floor. He couldn't help thinking about the woman who'd died there, her kids, and the husband who'd had to watch himself tear them apart.

This was the sort of thing demons did, the sort of thing they were good at. It was what came to mind when most hunters thought of them.

Sam wondered how often Dean thought about doing something like this.

"Welp, the goblet's gone." Dean broke him out of his thoughts. "No surprise there."

"Could you have checked the call history if it'd still been here?" Sam was mostly joking, but Dean took him seriously.

"I could've given it a shot, but I've already got a pretty good idea who it was probably talking to," Dean said grimly. He turned towards the kitchen. "Let's check the rest of the house. You mind taking the upstairs? I wanna see if there's anything that might tell - " He stopped abruptly, walking and talking. Sam moved over to him, about to ask him what was wrong when he looked up at the ceiling. "Well, shit."

Sam followed his gaze. The late-afternoon sunlight pouring into the house might've made the devil's trap on the ceiling, drawn in light pencil, hard to see if Sam hadn't already sort of known what he was looking for. It was a variant he'd never seen before, with more complicated symbols than the standard set drawn inside the pentagram.

"Don't freak out, okay?" Dean turned slowly, hands out in front of him to test the boundaries of the trap. "I'll be out of here in just a minute."

"I think I'll be okay," Sam replied dryly. They probably should have expected something like this. As long as the scout didn't show up, they were fine. "Why don't you just walk out? You used to walk through the ones at my cabin all the time."

"I know, but this one's stronger than a normal devil's trap," Dean said, frowning up at it. "Like I said, it's gonna take me a minute to push outta here." He glanced over his shoulder at Sam. "You wanna go ahead and go upstairs?"

Sam hesitated. "I don't know about that. I don't wanna leave you."

"Sam. C'mon." Turning to face him, Dean spread his arms wide. "Badass demon hunter here - literal demon. I'll be fine; this thing can't hold me long." He dropped his arms. "If it makes you feel better, though, you can go grab me the salt gun outta the car."

"I'm gonna do that," Sam stated. "Yell if you need anything, okay?"

"Thanks, Mom." Dean lifted a hand, rested it on an invisible wall. "I'll probably be outta here by the time you get back."

It was cold outside, the temperature dropping as the sun began to set. The thin, frosty layer of snow on the ground shone fiery orange, making Sam squint when he went to open the trunk. He picked up the shotgun they'd loaded with salt rounds earlier, along with a box of extra ammo and a can of spray paint. Might as well make some devil's traps of their own.

"So, do you still like your haircut?"

Sam started, nearly banging his head on the lid of the trunk. He pulled back and straightened up, looking towards the source of the voice. Gravel crunched as a man walked towards him, hands in the pockets of his jeans. It took Sam a second to recognize him, partly because the sun was in his eyes: Jake. The guy who'd fixed his hair.

Sam didn't answer. Just brought the gun up and aimed it directly at Jake's face, dropping the paint and the bullets so he could steady the short barrel with his other hand. Jake stopped dead in his tracks, throwing both hands up and looking utterly shocked.

"Whoa there, son." His voice was low and soothing, like he was trying to calm Sam down. "I don't - I don't want any trouble, trust me." He eyed the gun. "Is that thing even legal?"

"Don't worry, it's loaded with rock salt," Sam replied. "Won't kill your vessel, especially not at this distance. But it might blast you right outta him."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," Jake apologized, shaking his head.

"Drop the act." Sam shut doubt down before it could sneak in. "I know what you are."

"Well. Looks like that enormous head of yours is good for something after all." Jake smiled, then blinked. There was a flicking noise and his eyes filled with black. "Besides growing plenty of hair for demons to butcher. How did you figure it out?"

"It's a gravel drive." Sam smiled back, thinly. "If you'd actually walked up, I would've heard it."

"Clever," Jake allowed. He hadn't moved or lowered his hands, the gun apparently keeping him at bay. Sam considered shooting, or dropping it entirely and going for his knife, but maybe it'd be better to get some information before he tried for a kill.

"What're you even doing out here?" he asked, shaking his head. "This far west, in this town. Killing just...random people."

"First of all, I'm getting in some R and R," Jake replied easily. "This is like a vacation for me. And then I'm looking for a few important things, including our wayward Knight." He cocked his head to the side. "Speaking of which, where's your master?"

"Not really any of your business where my boyfriend is." Sam put a subtle emphasis on the word "boyfriend" and wondered how close Dean was to getting out of the trap.

Jake laughed. "Don't kid yourself. He's a demon; I felt it as soon as he walked into the barbershop. He's really no good at hiding himself. He's still so young. But you're a pet, meatbag. Either that or a fucktoy." He shrugged. "You don't look like you're worth betraying all of Hell for, but then again, I haven't screwed you. You must take it real nice. Or maybe he just likes how big you are." Jake frowned. "Heard you were crippled, though. Was that you, or did he swap the old one out?"

"Say whatever you want," Sam invited. "It won't work." He stared Jake down, refusing to take his eyes off of him. "Tell you what. Since you _did_ fix my hair, I'll make you a deal. I've got a few questions for you, and Dean'll probably have plenty when he gets out, too. So if you answer all of them, we'll kill you as quick and painless as we can."

"'Dean'?" Jake repeated, hooding his eyes. "Oh, dear. I don't think he's supposed to call himself that."

Sam couldn't be entirely sure what happened next; it was just way too fast. But he thought he saw one of Jake's hands move, and the shotgun flew out of his grip before he could even think about pulling the trigger. Jake must have teleported towards him then, and Dean must've gotten free of the trap and also teleported, because Sam was just barely bending his knees to spring for the gun when Dean was suddenly right in front of him, front-kicking Jake down the driveway.

He flew quite a ways, sending up a spray of gravel when he landed on all fours, hands curled into claws. Dean took the opportunity to flash a quick smirk over his shoulder at Sam. His eyes were black.

"I can't leave you alone for five minutes, can I?" he asked. Sam was about to answer when Jake suddenly blinked out of sight, reappearing to bodyslam Dean. The momentum carried both of them behind the car.

Fingers beginning to stiffen with cold, Sam snatched the gun off the ground and followed them. They were wrestling ferociously on the ground, rapidly switching positions when one teleported and the other had to get a grip on him again. Neither one of them seemed to be trying to get away. Dean was grasping Jake firmly, fingers digging into him, and straining. When a look of confusion flickered across his face, Jake laughed.

"You can't tear me apart like you did those young bucks they sent after you in the mountains," he told Dean smugly. "I didn't get my horns yesterday. Don't even try."

"What the hell are you?" Dean growled.

"Oh, nothing special," Jake replied casually. "I'm just _old_. Much older than you. I've learned ten times the tricks you have, and that's what's gonna let an ordinary demon like me bag a Knight like you."

Sam had the shotgun up but couldn't pull the trigger. If he shot now, the blast would catch Dean and Jake both. A Knight of Hell could take more salt than a normal demon, but he didn't want to risk weakening Dean at all right now. He couldn't do anything, and that was so frustrating it physically hurt. His hands trembled on the gun.

"Sam, make a cir - " Dean's order was abruptly cut off when Jake clapped a hand to his forehead and snarled a word in what Sam thought might be Catalan. The black drained out of Dean's eyes. He seemed stunned, body going lax. Jake easily threw him off, then got to his feet.

Sam wasted no time emptying the barrel at him. It didn't do anything. For a second, he thought he'd missed, but no. The side of the car was stippled with white salt, glittering in the dying light. Jake had just managed to teleport out of the way.

"Good try," he said condescendingly, beginning to walk towards Sam. Sam quickly backed up, breaking the shotgun open. He had to reload, but the ammo was on the ground behind him.

"What'd you do to him?" he demanded.

"It won't last long," Jake replied with a shrug. "Even if he doesn't know how to use it, he's still got a lot of raw power. But it should be more than enough time to take care of you. This whole thing will be so much easier once you're out of the picture."

Sam dropped the gun and pulled his knife out of his jacket instead. Jake's eyebrows drew together when he saw it, just a twitch, and Sam knew he recognized it for what it was.

"Come and get me, then," he told him, voice low.

Unfortunately, as Sam took another step back, his left boot came down on something round. It rolled out from underneath him, and his ass - along with most of his back - hit the cold gravel. It knocked the wind right out of him but, by some miracle, he kept his grip on the knife. He was lucky he didn't stab himself in the face.

Jake was on him immediately, knees on his chest, so he couldn't catch his breath, and hands on either side of his head. Sam gaped like a goldfish out of water, and Jake smiled benevolently down at him.

"Bye bye, pet," he said. "I had fun grooming you." Then he began to squeeze.

If he'd just crushed Sam's skull instantly, he probably could've pulled it off. He seemed to want to enjoy it, though, so he went slow. Sam cried out, hearing his bones creak inside his head and feeling his eyes start to bulge out of their sockets. His heart pounded in his ears and he struggled to bring his knife up, but a burst of telekinesis pinned his wrist against the gravel.

It was probably only a second or two of agony, and then Jake was ripped off of Sam. His fingernails tore stinging lines into the sides of Sam's head, and he felt blood run into his hair. Sam sat up, catching his breath and blinking rapidly as he got used to suddenly _not_ being about to die. Dean was grappling with Jake again, growling and being careful to keep his head away from him this time.

Moving up into a crouch, Sam reached for the gun he'd dropped, looking for the box of ammo. Instead, though, he found the thing that'd tripped him: the spray paint. He hesitated for half a second, then grabbed the can and bolted. The gravel flying loose under his feet wouldn't work.

"Look at him go." Jake laughed, talking to Dean. "I guess he saw a chance and took it...don't worry. Maybe Alastair will get him back for you." Sam winced when he heard Dean snarl in pain, but he couldn't afford to look back. "Just as soon as he's done taking these past few months out of your ass."

The snow crunched beneath Sam's boots when he reached it. He began to kick it out of the way to expose the yellow grass beneath, frantically shaking the can. As soon as he'd cleared a big enough piece of solid ground, he tore the cap off and pressed down on the nozzle.

Sam was still shaky with adrenaline and his hands were cold, so it wasn't the best devil's trap. The circle was lopsided and some of the symbols were bigger than others. They were all there, though, and all the points of the pentagram were inside his crappy circle, and he was pretty sure that was all that mattered.

"Dean!" he yelled as soon as he was finished, stepping back.

Glancing in Sam's direction, Dean seemed to instantly understand. He wrapped both arms around Jake, teleported directly into the devil's trap with him, and then just stepped back out of it.

Jake looked confused for a second. Then he started to laugh, standing on the painted grass. He smiled at Sam and Dean.

"Well, that was smarter than I would've expected from the two of you," he admitted. "I hope you realize you're just delaying the inevitable. You..." He looked at Sam. "You're with a Knight of Hell. That isn't going to end well for you. And you..." He looked at Dean. "Your Lords and Prince are coming for you, Dantalion. They won't be stopped. And when they find you, you're going to wish you'd never been born."

"I think I've heard just about enough outta you." Dean pulled the knife that Sam was still holding out of his hand, handling it carefully, then made to step back into the devil's trap. Sam threw an arm across his chest, though.

"Wait," he told him, then looked at Jake. "Where's Frank?"

The demon cocked his head to the side again, eyes black. He smiled very slowly. "Ah, right. The man of the house behind you. You're hoping he's still alive, aren't you? So you can save him?" He chuckled. "Never mind that his family's dead and his reputation's ruined. You're a hunter. Just so long as he's breathing, that's a win."

Sam didn't say anything. Standing beside him, knife at the ready, neither did Dean.

"I chose Jake here at random," the demon continued, "but once I was inside him, I had access to all sorts of fascinating memories. For example, Frank's wife? Jake'd had an eye on her since middle school. Never said a word until she and Frank were married. And her children? Both Jake's. I'd say Frank was probably sterile." He smiled again. "I came here and told him the truth, and he shot me in the chest. Understandably. He actually killed Jake, although of course he didn't know that." He lifted his shirt to expose a neat bullet wound on the left side of his furry chest. "So I pinned him against the wall and made him watch what I did."

"Who the hell cares?" Dean demanded, and Jake smirked.

"Don't act like you don't wish it wasn't you who'd had all that fun."

"Is Frank alive or not?" Sam asked flatly.

"Oh, he's quite dead," Jake replied easily. "Recently dead, though. I kept him for a long time. So it's a real shame...if only you'd gotten here sooner. You might've been able to save him after all."

"Guess we're done here, then." Dean tossed Sam's knife into the air, caught it, then lunged forward and slammed it into the hollow of Jake's throat, burying it all the way up to the hilt. Jake's mouth fell open. A little bit of dark blood dripped off his lower lip as light the color of fresh meat blazed through his body, outlining his skeleton. Then it flickered out, and the body slumped forward in the devil's trap after Dean pulled the knife out with a wet ripping sound.

"Jesus." Sam dragged a hand backwards through his hair. The length was a shock all over again. "So...I guess we're burning him?"

"Not like we've got much choice." Dean shrugged as he crouched to clean the knife off in the snow. "Ground's too hard to bury him, and something else could come along and use his body if we did that."

He handed the knife back to Sam, then led the way towards the car. Sam kept glancing back over his shoulder at the crumpled corpse behind them, eyes no longer black, blood oozing out of its open mouth and throat. It was like a compulsion. He jumped a little when Dean clapped a hand onto his back.

"Hey," he said seriously. "Look at me." Sam did. "This was a win, okay?"

"Was it, though?" Sam asked, frowning. "Five people are dead, and god only knows how many cows, and the whole town's reeling."

"It was a hunt." Dean put his whole arm around Sam when they reached the open trunk. "Our job's to kill the monster, not fix the mess it made. And we did that. Neither of us got majorly hurt, either, so that's a hell of a lot better than our last hunt." Sam leaned heavily into his touch. His eyes had gone back to normal without him noticing. "I don't know about you, but I feel totally comfortable moving onto the Trials after we do another hunt."

Sam looked at him sharply. "You said - " Dean laughed, cutting him off.

"I know, I know," he assured. "We're gonna do the First Trial. Just gotta find a hellhound case first." He pulled a bottle of lighter fluid and a canister of rock salt out of the arsenal. "Which might be easier said than done."

"Are you okay?" Sam traded with Dean, and Dean put the paint back in the trunk. Sam kept the knife. Just in case.

"Course. Why wouldn't I be?" He also sent the box of ammunition and shotgun that Sam'd dropped back where they'd come from with a flick of his wrist.

"Well, he made it sound like he was pretty garden-variety, but...he also kinda threw you around like a ragdoll." They made the short walk back to Jake's body. "So I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Thanks for reminding me, Sam. But I'm just fine," Dean said. His tone was light and easy, and maybe a little exasperated. "I know I got a lot to learn about being a Knight, and a demon. Still got a shitload more mojo than most, though, and plus: we beat him." Dean gave Sam a smile. "It'd sure be nice to know more fancy tricks than I do already, but if it comes down to it, I think I'd rather just have you backing me up."

Sam smiled back at him, a warm feeling spreading slowly through his chest like honey in his veins. He felt so different after this hunt than he had the last one that it was incredible. He almost didn't notice when Dean looked down at his legs.

"What?" he asked. "Am I limping?"

"Well, you were, but...you just stopped." Dean shook his head. "Don't worry about it. We gotta clean up our mess."

They scrubbed the still-wet spray paint out of the grass with their boots, then took Jake's body to the scrubby woods surrounding the property, where his remains would be less likely to be found. The sky was a dark purple as the fire burned, and Sam would've had a hard time seeing Dean if it hadn't been for the flames. After a while, Dean turned to him.

"How 'bout you?" he asked, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. "Are _you_ okay?"

"Yeah," Sam realized. "I really am." He offered Dean a tentative grin. "I'm excited."

"It's gonna be rough," Dean warned. "Saving the world's not all fun and games."

"Yeah, I'd figured," Sam replied dryly. Looking down at the pyre, he sighed. "Think I'd forgotten about this part of hunting. Not being able to save people. I hate it." He coughed. "I also really hate how burning bodies smell."

"I used to," Dean agreed, "but I hardly notice it anymore." He patted Sam on the shoulder, which quickly turned into ruffling his hair. "We're almost done, though. Then we can go."


	10. Chapter 10

_I don't like dogs._

 _Seems like people always flip out whenever I say that. They just can't believe it. What? Everybody likes dogs! How can you not like dogs? Really freaking easy is how._

 _Dad likes dogs, even. He's got one right now. Some kind of Rottweiler? I don't know. I've only ever seen it from a distance. Don't know the name, either. I don't care. It's chained up out in the scrapyard and not like I'm home all that much._

 _Kevin says only psychos hate dogs, cause they can tell there's something wrong with them, but I've got another reason. There are a ton of monster dogs out there, and I've run into a lot of them. Black shucks, grims. Axehandle hounds. Now those are weird. Hellhounds. I really hate those. Fucking Xolotl._

 _Jesus, don't even get me started on Xolotl. What a dick. Guess I can only hope I never run into him again, but seriously, why me? Most hunters hardly ever even come across a demon and I've got a god crawling up my ass every few years. Can't be a coincidence._

 _Anyway, I just don't like dogs. And nothing's gonna change my mind._

 _\- Personal journal of Dean Singer, c. 1986_

* * *

"One I did was real easy to find," Dean told Sam. "I got lucky. One of those things where one person summons a crossroads demon and it uses that as an in to make a whole bunch of deals in the same area. They all started coming due while I was looking for my First Trial."

"Yeah, a bunch of people losing their marbles and being mauled to death by dogs'd kinda be a dead giveaway," Sam agreed. Eyeing the screen of his laptop, where he had about twenty tabs open, he sighed. "Wish one would just fall in my lap like that."

"Hey, we're looking," Dean encouraged. He was sitting on the floor, every cheap newsrag he'd been able to pick up along I84 spread out around him. The colors had already bled off onto his hands. And his face, his jeans, and Sam, where he'd touched all of them. "Deals go down all the time. We'll find one."

"I'm afraid it's not gonna be 'til after the hellhounds have come and gone, though," Sam replied. "And they're kinda central to this whole thing." He paused, tapping his pencil against the notebook that he was jotting down potential leads in. "Can you walk me through exactly what I'm gonna do, again? One more time?"

"Well." Dean straightened up, hands on the knees of his folded legs, and looked at Sam. "It's pretty simple. On paper, at least. There aren't that many steps. It's just that the first one's a doozy." He started ticking them off on his thick fingers. "Kill a hellhound. I used an angel blade, but that super special knife of yours oughta do the trick just fine. 'Bathe' in its blood. I caught it in a bowl, some of it, at least, and dumped it over my head, and apparently that was enough. Recite a spell, then you, uh, glow, and boom. You're doing the Trials."

Sam felt a frown flicker across his face. "I sure hope you remember that spell."

"Have a little faith. Course I do." Dean turned his attention back to the tabloids. "One of the many, many things that little memory spell of yours dredged up, and no wonder, considering how many times I had to practice it." He flipped a few pages telekinetically. "And good thing. 'Cause I got no idea where the demon Tablet wound up. Pretty sure Kevin still had it when I bit it."

"Right," Sam said. "I better start practicing sooner rather than later, so if you could recite that for me sometime, that'd be great." He felt invisible fingers in his hair and sighed. "Is it sticking up again?" He'd spent the entire ride from that tiny town in Idaho to this even tinier one in Oregon messing with it, but he still couldn't get it to look quite like it had the first time Jake had done it.

"Yup." Dean grinned, and even as Sam returned an unimpressed look, he wondered if it'd be weird to lean into a psychic touch. "Should've kept Jake alive for a while, so he could've given you some tips...I'm kidding. I think it's cute." He smoothed Sam's hair down. "In an Alfalfa kinda way."

Sam scoffed, raising both eyebrows. "Careful, Dandelion. I might say something about your freckles."

"What about my freckles?" Dean asked defensively. Sam just shook his head and looked at his computer again.

"Might be easier to put a want ad out there," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Craigslist or something. 'Did a red-eyed stranger approach you offering the impossible roughly a decade ago, then actually deliver? Call our toll-free - '"

"Seriously," Dean interrupted, and Sam glanced at him. "What's wrong with my freckles?" He had his hands on his face like he was trying to feel them. But he wasn't doing anything but smearing more newsprint onto himself.

"Nothing," Sam stated. "I like them. Let it go, dude. We've got work to do."

"Shouldn't've brought it up in the first place, then," Dean muttered under his breath, picking up a copy of _Weekly World News._ Sam made a mental note to give his freckles the attention they deserved later. Maybe he'd kiss every single one, or at least every single part of Dean that had them on it. For now, he changed the subject.

"It's gonna be tough to kill a dog," Sam commented. "Hellhound or not. I had a problem with it when they brought me one at the cabin, and that one'd killed three people."

"Yeah." Dean grimaced. "I hate dogs."

Sam gave him his full attention, incredulous. "Excuse me?"

"What?" Dean shrugged, defensive again. "I hate dogs."

"Yeah, but - " Sam took a second to rein himself in. "Nobody hates dogs. Who hates dogs?"

"Uh, me," Dean said dryly. He wasn't looking at Sam, gray-smudged nose pretty much buried in the magazine.

"I don't think I've...ever met somebody who hated dogs," Sam said honestly. "Not even cat people. I mean - " He put both hands on his chest. "I _love_ dogs. Growing up, pretty much all I wanted was a dog. That, and to stay at one school for a whole year. But my dad always shut me down on both counts." He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. "Didn't 'fit with the life.'"

"Okay, your obvious daddy issues aside," Dean began, clearing his throat and lowering _WWN_. Sam scowled. "If you like dogs so freakin' much, how come you didn't have one at your cabin?"

"I..." Sam hesitated. He walked slowly across the room, not going anywhere, just moving. "I thought about it. At first. I almost asked Bobby about it, which ought to tell you how early on it was, but I decided against it." He shrugged at Dean, standing at the edge of his circle of cheap paper and cheaper ink. "I wasn't sure I could take care of it. Y'know, physically. And it wouldn't've been a good place for a dog; dogs don't like monsters. And a lot of monsters don't like dogs. I was trying to accommodate them." He folded his arms across his chest, feeling the tip of his tongue sneak out of his mouth as he looked down at Dean. "Never heard anything specific about demons and dogs, though."

"I hated dogs before I died," Dean replied. "Becoming a demon had nothing to do with it."

"Why d'you hate dogs, then?" Sam asked, spreading his hands and shaking his head. Dean might've put _WWN_ down, but he was still looking at it rather than Sam. "Did something happen to you? Did you have a bad - "

He stopped abruptly, eyes falling closed and hands dropping to his sides as a realization hit him like a bullet between the eyes. It was funny, how Dean relied on him to be the more emotional and human of them, and the one who was more into research, and he hadn't even been able to put an obvious two and two together. Dean being a demon. Dean hating dogs. Hellhounds.

 _God, I am such a fucking_ idiot.

Sam stepped over the line of shock tabloids and sank down on the floor next to Dean, ignoring the way the muscles of his left calf fluttered. He leaned against him, putting an arm around his waist and feeling his warmth. Alive, there, just not quite human. After a second of Dean not moving, Sam turned his head so he could rest his chin on his shoulder, and murmured, "I'm sorry."

To his surprise, Dean responded by chuckling, low and deep in his chest. Sam pulled back slightly, and Dean turned to him with a grin. Those stupid freckles were on full display, sprayed across his nose and cheeks, picked out by the light coming through the dingy curtains and only partially obscured by newsprint. Sam wondered if he'd been this pretty before or if he'd tweaked his vessel some while he was healing it.

"Jesus," he said. "You are _so_ easy to guilt. How the hell'd you even survive? My money would've been on you letting a vampire out of its cage after a sob story in the first week."

"You would've lost that bet," Sam pointed out. "I let a monster out of its cage 'cause it told me it loved me, _not_ because of a sob story, and it happened a few hundred weeks in, not the first one." He tossed a hand up. "And it hasn't even killed me. Yet."

"Smartass," Dean accused. "And yeah, you better keep that 'yet' in mind." He lifted a hand and cupped the back of Sam's head, playing with his short hair. "I accept your apology. I hated dogs before I died, actually, but the whole hellhound thing definitely didn't help."

"So...you gonna be okay?" Sam asked quietly. "I know we still have to find a case, but once we do, we're gonna have to get pretty up close and personal with some hellhounds."

"Yeah." Dean's nose bumped Sam's. "I'll be fine. Stuff like that doesn't even bother me anymore." His tone was breezy, impossible to hear a lie in, but Sam was skeptical anyway. Dean must've felt that, because he went for his usual method of distraction: he kissed Sam.

It started out sweet, Dean taking upper lip and keeping his mouth closed. Sam angled his head a little so that they meshed together better, supposing he could stand to be distracted some for now. Dean's mouth was always so soft. And Sam could swear he felt all the power behind it, all the physical and psychic strength that Dean held back, so he wouldn't accidentally break his jaw or make his head explode. He could especially feel it wen Dean guided his mouth open with his own and lapped at the edges. Wet heat dripped onto Sam's tongue, tasting like honey. And sulfur, as always. A shiver wound its way up through Sam's stomach, and his thighs jerked apart by about an inch without him thinking about it. Blood was just starting to pound southward when Dean pulled back.

"Your lips feel kinda chapped," Dean rasped. Sam's barely-there arousal suddenly seemed to be threatened.

"I'm - "

"You're dehydrated, is what you are," Dean interrupted, pulling back further. He pointed at the bathroom. "Go drink a glass of water."

Sam just stared at him for a second, then demanded, "Are you kidding me right now?"

"Nope. Water." Dean snapped his fingers in the direction of the bathroom. "C'mon. Makes up ninety percent of your body, top it off."

"Seventy-five." Swearing under his breath, Sam got to his feet. "This is how you're gonna kill me, isn't it?" He shot Dean a dirty look over his shoulder as he headed for the bathroom. "This better not be 'cause of all those times I wasn't in the mood."

"Course not," Dean replied easily, shaking out _WWN_ and lifting it back to eye level. It's my job to take care of you. And I take my job _very_ seriously."

* * *

They did wind up having sex, once Sam had drunk enough water to satisfy Dean's mother-hen instincts. Dean rode him, saying he wanted a prostate orgasm ("I need one I can feel in my damn _teeth_ right now. Not fair you get to have all the fun all the time."), and they fell back into bed as the sunlight sharpened into its noon form. Sam was torn, still horny from that filthy kiss but also painfully aware of the ticking clock. Hell was moving fast and not even Dean knew what they were doing. Hellhound cases were hit-or-miss. They needed to get this show on the road.

Dean made him forget all that, though, with slow, deep rolls of his hips, and open-mouthed kisses while he twitched his ass up to Sam's head, and callused finger pads on Sam's sensitive nipples. When his orgasm hit, he could tell it was going to be one that'd practically shake the bed apart.

At least until he made a reflexive and misguided attempt to wrap his legs around Dean, and something in his calf twinged. Then he was back in his cabin, breaking Gordon's neck with his feet, feeling the jolt of shattered bones ripping through a spinal cord, watching the split-second switch from life to death on his face. Never mind that he hadn't actually seen that when he'd done it. Guilt and horror still stopped his climax dead in its tracks, like a cork rammed back into the neck of a champagne bottle with demonic speed.

It hurt, to the point where it made Sam nauseous. It felt like he'd been kicked in the balls. Tears welled under his closed lids, and his voice came out far higher than he would've liked when he yelled "Fuck!" and pounded a fist into the mattress.

He wasn't sure how long it was before he could open his eyes, but Dean was still sitting on top of him. He was flaccid, and there was come puddled on Sam's chest and stomach; he hadn't even noticed Dean finish. They stared at each other for a minute, then Dean cleared his throat awkwardly and climbed off Sam. He'd already slipped out of him, along with a pitiful amount of jizz so thin, when Sam sat up to look at it on the bedspread, that it was practically precome.

"Well, that's never happened before," Dean announced, settling down beside Sam.

"It wasn't you," Sam said miserably.

"Yeah, I figured. I felt that, uh, pity party bomb that went off in your head right as you were getting close." Dean waited a beat. Tentatively, he began, "D'you wanna - ?"

"No." Sam dragged a hand through his sweaty hair. His fingers coming out of it much sooner than he'd expected made him grit his teeth.

"Okay. Fine." Dean's head bobbed. There was a smeared thumbprint of ink on the side of his nose. "Great - I respect that." He shifted closer to Sam, their shoulders brushing, and reached into his lap. "At least lemme give you a real finish."

"No," Sam repeated, cocking his pelvis away from Dean's hand as he made contact with his dick. Frustration nearly choked him: he hadn't even come and he was still dealing with a refractory period.

"Sorry." Dean took his hand back. Sam laid down on his side, back to Dean, curled up around his aching stomach. He could feel Dean moving on the mattress, like he wanted to touch him but didn't know how. Something close to a minute passed before he said, again, "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault, Dean." Sam scrubbed a hand over his face, pressing hard into his stinging eyes. "It's just - I'm fucked up. I'm just fucked up. That's all."

"Guess we match, then." Dean laid a hand on him, comfortingly rubbing his side from his armpit to his hip. Sam didn't want to admit it, but it felt good. Even when Dean's calluses caught on his moles and scars. He missed the contact when Dean climbed off the bed, but he was back before long, with a threadbare washcloth. After Sam wiped himself off and handed it back, Dean pulled a blanket over him. It was scratchy and smelled vaguely sour. But at least it was warm.

"Thanks," Sam muttered, more habit than real gratitude.

"Yeah, whatever." He heard Dean grab his jeans. "I'm gonna get back to work. You recharge your batteries." He dropped down on the foot of the bed, making Sam bounce and dragging a groan that he definitely didn't exaggerate out of him. "And if you feel like slinging around any of those sticky human emotions, you know where to find me."

"No," Sam grunted.

"That makes my life easier," Dean replied easily. "You know I suck at all that touchy-feely stuff." He patted Sam's foot under the blanket and stood up.

Sam didn't want to stew, to fixate on what'd happened or what he'd remembered. His brain didn't seem to care what he wanted, though. Business as usual for stuff like this. He spent about ten minutes laying on the bed, breathing deeply as the physical discomfort slowly faded, before he realized that he wasn't going to be able to sleep. He threw off the blanket and crawled to the edge of the bed to grab his backpack.

"I'm going for a run," he announced. That'd probably help more than a nap.

Dean, on his stomach in the middle of his trashy circle, looked up. "I mean, it's, like, twenty degrees out, but okay," he said. He watched Sam put on all of his gear, some of it newly bought as the weather turned, and let him get all the way to the muffler before he said, "Before you go, wanna look at what I found?"

Sam threw his arms wide, exasperated, and Dean answered with a shit-eating grin and raised eyebrows. And maybe it was stupid. Probably, it was. But Sam felt just the tiniest bit better.

"Fine," he said through the fleecy fabric of his muffler, clumping over in his running shoes and thick woolen socks. Dean displayed his find for Sam like a kid with a coloring book. It was in a Christian magazine, a shittily-Photoshopped, televangelist-type thing, just a blurb near the back.

 _I SOLD MY SOUL TO THE DEVIL!_ dramatic text proclaimed, imposed over flames and Galle's Lucifer. Interesting choice. _And now he's coming back!_ it continued below, in smaller letters. _Former sinner appeals to Father Eddie Norton, True Voice of God, and his many pious followers for help. Father Norton to hold prayer revival in Ballinger, Texas this coming Saturday. Come save this man's soul!_

"All right," Sam agreed once he was finished, scanning it. "Sounds like that's worth checking out. Interviewing the, uh, 'former sinner,' at least." He made a face. "Texas, though. Jeez. And we gotta get there before Saturday...that's gonna be a long drive."

"Yeah, I know," Dean agreed happily, then looked up at Sam. "You clearly don't appreciate your dad's baby, so I'm just gonna have to appreciate her enough for both of us."

 _Her?_ "Okay, well, I'm going for a run before we leave." Sam raised both index fingers, the movement made stiff and awkward by his thick gloves. "Nonnegotiable."

"I wasn't even gonna try to negotiate," Dean assured him. "I'll pack us up. You work on keeping that girlish figure of yours." He patted Sam's ankle, and Sam kicked his hand away. Gently.

"Wash your face while you're at it," Sam suggested, and Dean touched it as he headed out the door, smudging pink onto the hollow of his temple.

"Love you too, honey."

Sam went for a run. A quick one, because the schedule was even tighter now. It was freezing out, just like Dean had said, and felt even colder than it actually was because of the humidity. Sweat froze in Sam's eyelashes, seed pearls glittering in the light streaming through the gappy cloud cover like something off an inspirational postcard. He liked the way the air burned in his lungs, though, and how it made it harder than usual to get his legs moving. It distracted him from how good he'd been doing all the way up until today. If he was thinking about how bad his chest hurt, he wasn't thinking about how nothing at all had triggered the flashback. He wasn't stressing over how bad it'd be if that happened while he was trying to do the First Trial.

When Sam looped around back to the motel, it wasn't like everything was magically better. He wasn't sure he could handle a run long enough to do that, even if he had all the time in the world. But at least he'd managed to pack it all away for now where it wouldn't bother him so much anymore.

Which always worked out _so well_ for him in the long run. Hopefully, though, the long run wouldn't catch up to him until after the First Trial was over with. Or even until the Gates of Hell were actually closed.

It'd started to snow, lightly, as Sam approached the car. Dean was sitting on the hood, legs out in front of him, back against the windshield. His arms were folded behind his head and Sam's headphones were over his ears, plugged into the tape player he'd picked up over the summer. He cracked an eye open, then slipped one of the cups off. "You ready to bounce?"

"Yeah, I can change when we hit a rest stop." Sam eyed what Dean was wearing. T-shirt, flannel with the sleeves rolled up. He'd gotten the ink off his face. "You could've at least put on a coat. People're gonna get suspicious."

"I'll just tell 'em I'm on Texas weather already." Dean slid off the hood and dropped into the driver's seat, transferring the tape from the player to the car and popping the keys in the ignition. Sam swung himself in on the passenger side, landing heavily on the leather. "How's your leg?"

"Uh." Sam pulled his gloves off, scrubbed at his numb nose with one hand. "Fine?" Dean hadn't asked him that since the first couple times he'd gone running.

"Great." Dean backed out. "Got some stuff for you in the back. Grab a drink."

They decided Dean would drive straight through down to Ballinger, Sam sleeping in the back at night, only stopping when the Impala needed gas. Dean pulled into a filling station a few hours down the road to top up the tank and let Sam take care of any human needs he might have. They weren't out of Oregon yet, so the attendant jumped to his feet when Dean parked next to the pump.

"I hate this goddamn state," Dean muttered.

"You'll survive," Sam assured. "Just keep reminding yourself it's his job to touch her and try not to beat him up."

He made to climb out of the car, but Dean grabbed his elbow before he could, pulling him back for a quick kiss. Sam closed his eyes, caught halfway between irritation and something much warmer and gooier.

"You're okay." Dean's voice was serious when they broke. It wasn't a question.

"Yeah," Sam agreed, figuring he could use the confirmation.

He grabbed his backpack and headed for the bathroom, where he put on fresh deodorant and swapped his running clothes out for normal ones. He was probably gonna be pretty ripe by the time they got to Texas, but that was life on the road, and it wasn't like Dean minded. Sam pulled off the beanie he'd been wearing, winced at his hair, and put it back on. They probably wouldn't be stopping again for a while, so he took care of a few other things. Stepping out into the cold air, he was about to go back to the car when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out, checked the number. He didn't recognize it, but he hadn't recognized Charlie's, either. Maybe she'd gotten another new phone. Maybe Garth had. Sam flipped it open and answered.

"Hello?"

"This Sam Winchester?"

The voice was gruff, older, had a bit of a twang to it. Not Garth or Ash. A bad feeling had Sam swallowing hard as his stomach dropped some, and he wanted to hang up. Something, though, made him quietly say, "Yeah."

"Well," the guy on the other end said loudly. "Hey, there, you murderin', cock-suckin' son of a bitch. You enjoying your alone time with your demon fuckbuddy?"

Sam cleared his throat painfully. "How'd you get this number?"

"Well, you'd better be." The guy ignored him. "'Cause it ain't gonna last. We're comin' for you. Gonna kill that black-eyed bastard what's fucking you. Or exorcise him, maybe that'd be better. And you? We're gonna _skin you alive_ , gimp. You're gonna pay for what you did."

"And what - what d'you think I did, exactly?" Sam rested his free hand on the building, tapping his fingers against the greasy bricks as anger started to simmer between his chest and stomach. He knew it was dangerous. But he didn't shut it down.

"Flipped." The other hunter was growling now, furious. "Sold us all out to Hell when the demons've been kicking our asses all around the East Coast for months now. Killed Gordon, another human being, in cold blood. You even a person anymore? You gonna bleed red when we catch up and start cutting? Or did one of your monsters get to you a while back?" A snort. "Wouldn't be surprised, you treatin' 'em like puppies and kitties. Rumor going around you let 'em all jump your bones and that Knight we practically killed ourselves to get is just the latest in a long line. That true?"

"Is this Kubrik?" The voice was starting to sound familiar to Sam, like it might belong to one of the hunters who'd delivered Dean to his cabin in the first place.

"Bet you diddled the wraith kid."

"When I killed Gordon," Sam began in a carefully-controlled voice, "I was tied to a chair. He'd knocked me out, tied me up in my own home, and tortured me while I was out."

"'Cause he knew what you were up to," maybe-Kubrik returned.

"And what was I up to?" Sam demanded. "You knew Gordon. He hated me, he hated how I did what I did 'cause it was so different from his methods. A lot of you did. He was just looking for an excuse, and he found it when he jumped to conclusions and assumed the worst. He never asked me what I was doing, and when I told him, he didn't believe me."

"And what were you doing, then?" Kubrik wanted to know. "Besides fagging around with something you should've been figuring out how to kill."

Sam's stomach was starting to hurt like it had earlier, and the anger ballooning like an aggressive tumor inside him was only part of it. "It doesn't matter. You're not gonna believe me no matter what I say. You're exactly like Gordon: you want my head on a stick because of what you _think_ you know and you're not gonna let anything change your mind." He clenched his hand into a fist on the wall, so fast he scraped his knuckles. His cold joints ached and stung. "The _Knight_ knows how to close the Gates of Hell. How to get rid of all the demons, forever. Deals, daevas, everything. _Everything_. And considering I've got my ass on the line trying to save the world, including all of you, I don't really think that anything else I do with him is any of your business."

There was silence on the other end of the line for a solid few seconds. Sam didn't know what to make of it, not sure if Kubrik was actually mulling over what he'd said or if he'd hung up. But then a sound came rumbling through the phone, mocking and so deep that Sam had trouble identifying it as a laugh at first.

Sam just stood there, jaw and hand clenched, and wondered why in the hell he was waiting this asshole out. His thumb twitched towards the button that would've ended the call, but he didn't press it.

"Son," Kubrik began, when he was finished, "I'm honestly not sure if you're a liar or just an idiot. Neither one's an excuse, though."

Sam swallowed again, and felt his jaw lock forward to form what Dean called his "stubborn bitchface."

"Fine," he said, very quietly. _Not like I need support from any of you to do this._

"Bet you think you can't be caught, huh?" Kubrik taunted. "You're too fast. You're too smart. It'd take us too long to track you down. Well, maybe you're right. But there are still plenty of people out there singing your praises, somehow. The Harvelles, y'know? That weirdo Garth kid. The rug muncher - Charlie. And we all know exactly where they are."

The anger that'd slowly been rising in Sam, twisting and heating his guts, boiled over at that. Or maybe a better analogy would've been somebody dropping a lit match in a gas can.

"Listen," Sam snapped. "You douchebags wanna come after me and...cut my legs off, or whatever, I don't care. Go right ahead. But don't you _dare_ go after my family. They're not part of this. One of you already burned down the Roadhouse, didn't you? Try anything like that again, I can promise you'll regret it."

"Yeah?" Kubrik didn't sound impressed. "And what're you gonna do?"

"I've got seven years' worth of interrogation experience and a Knight of Hell," Sam spit into the phone. "Figure it out."

Then he hung up. Finally.

The fire in him went out after that. He wasn't mad anymore, just tired and troubled and guilty. He told himself he shouldn't be feeling that last one, but didn't really believe it.

Something was really bothering him, besides the obvious. It was like a splinter in Sam's brain: just how in the hell had Kubrik gotten his number? Only a handful of people had it, and thinking any of them might've given him up made Sam feel like he was going to puke, just thin, burning acid.

Thinking about that made him realize that, if Kubrik had his number, he (or somebody else) might be able to track him. Or call him again. Right now, Sam honestly didn't know which was worse.

He whipped his phone at the ground, using his whole arm like his dad had told him to when he was teaching him to throw knives. That cracked the casing and the screen. But it totally destroyed the phone when he stomped on it, grinding it into about twenty different pieces underneath the heel of his boot.

Sam was just standing there, staring down at the wreckage, when Dean came around the side of the building.

"Well, there you are. Figured you'd fallen in." He paused, either seeing the remains of Sam's phone or feeling the wall of emotion coming off him. "What happened?"

"I, uh." Sam pointed at the ground. "I dropped it."

"I guess you did," Dean agreed. "And that really upset you, huh?"

Sam stared at him, and there was a long moment where he almost didn't tell him. He didn't want to talk about how close the people who hated them might be, or how somebody he'd trusted had sold them out. He didn't want them to have to worry about it together.

But what Dean had said about acting like part of a couple rather than a solo hunter had burned deep into him, sinking in like a bullet that couldn't ever be dug out. And it wouldn't let him keep his mouth shut about something this big.

"I," he began. "Got a call. From...another hunter. Not just another hunter, one of the guys who used to run with Gordon. He didn't say anything I didn't expect, but - fuck. Hearing it from somebody? _Knowing_ that he. That he _found_ me, or at least my number?" He swallowed. It hurt, his mouth tasting sour like blood or vomit. "Or that somebody...somebody gave it to him? I couldn't..." He trailed off. Dean was watching him patiently, doing that not-blinking thing that always squicked Sam out, and he brought both hands up to his head. Almost ran his fingers through his hair, remembered he couldn't just in time. "And _of course_ it'd happen now, right fucking now, when I'm already wound up about...you know. About all of this. Starting the Trials, killing a hellhound. The last one I took out, it was in my demon cell, and it was _leashed_. On an iron chain." Once he'd started telling the truth, the rest of it poured out of him. It must be vomit his mouth tasted like, because it felt like throwing up. "And...when we were having sex earlier, if that happens while we're hunting - "

"Okay. Slow down." Dean stepped forward, shaking his head, and put both hands on Sam. One on his shoulder, the other cupping his jaw. "First of all: that asshole's miles away from you, and even if he ain't, you think I'm gonna let him, or any of 'em, get anywhere near the two of us? It was just a phone call. One you made sure isn't gonna happen again." He stared, hard, into Sam's eyes. "And second of all: you're gonna be okay. You're gonna be just fine. What happened earlier didn't happen with the ghoul hunt, it didn't happen yesterday, and you were totally freaking _awesome_ yesterday. You're good at this, Sam. You practically lost a leg and you didn't even let that take you outta the game the whole way." He ducked in, kissed Sam loud and wet on the lips, and just that had him smiling involuntarily. "You've got some jitters right now, and that's totally normal, but you chose to do this. You even roped me into it. And you're gonna see it through to the very end."

Sam closed his eyes and stepped in, wrapping his arms around him.

"We're gonna take it one step at a time," Dean said quietly. "And our first step's to get to Texas." He paused. "Or to get you a new phone. 'Cause, _jeez_ , man, are you ever rough on 'em."


	11. Chapter 11

_We know a lot about demons' true faces, thanks to interviews with those who have made crossroads deals. The general consensus is that they're ugly, horrifying. Of course they are. Nobody is going to look good if they're tortured every single day for centuries, their wounds exposed to Hell's harsh conditions, the combined hate and rage and pain of the damned part of the human race, gathered over millennia, poured into their souls. The eyes are black, of course. Some interesting things happen with the smoke, too, or so I've heard._

 _You're not going to be able to see one, though: I've tried, there's no way. The only people who get to see demons' true faces are those slated to die, ones whose deals are so close to coming due that they're seeing human faces twist and hearing hellhounds howl. I've heard ghosts can see them, and people with death curses the clock is running down on, and certain creatures and animals. Angels, reapers, dogs._

 _Personally, I'm not jealous of any of those just because they can see what demons really look like._

 _-_ Demons and Other Biblical Monsters, _Sam Winchester_

* * *

"No teleporting," Sam had started. "No telekinesis."

"Fine, whatever."

"No black eyes, no starting fires...'cause you can do that, right? No touching any Bibles or holy water or crosses, because they'll burn you, and people'll see."

"Why the hell would I touch any of those on purpose?"

"No talking about Hell," Sam told Dean. "No quoting _The Exorcist._ "

"Well, fine." Dean rolled his eyes. "If you're really that determined I have no fun at all here."

"No demon shit." Sam hoped that would cover anything he'd forgotten.

 _"Fine."_ Dean's eyes came off the road, and he winked at Sam. "Wanna kiss? Seal the deal?"

"Depends." Sam raised his eyebrows. "You aren't a crossroads demon. Would it still lock you into a contract?"

"Nope."

They kissed anyway, but decided Sam should probably go to the revival alone.

They made it to Ballinger Saturday morning. The revival didn't start until one, and Sam was achy, tired, and felt disgusting. Showering and shaving was practically a religious experience, and so was eating a meal that didn't come out of a plastic bag. Getting to take a nap without having to fold up his six-foot-four frame in the back seat of the car nearly made him cry.

He put his appearance together carefully once he felt human again. It was as much of a costume as the FBI suit. Neatly-combed hair, clean-shaven face, short-sleeved white button down, black tie and slacks and shoes.

"You look like a missionary," Dean declared. He'd showered and changed, too, though he'd kept the jeans-boots-and-flannel theme.

"Yep," Sam agreed, leaning in close to the water-spotted mirror in the bathroom to make sure all of his many, many bald spots were covered up. "That's the point."

The revival was easy to find. There were signs all over town, first of all, and the huge white tent at the fairgrounds was hard to miss. Sam left Dean in the gravel parking lot with his tape player and a stack of reading material, the Impala not standing out all that much among the wide variety of other cars, and headed across the dirt field to the entrance.

There was a folding table there, a couple of middle-aged women with feathered hair and press-on nails handing out pamphlets. Once Sam got closer, he saw that some were programs and others had to do with Father Eddie Norton's own particular brand of faith.

"Hey there, sugar." One of the women greeted Sam with a pink-lipsticked smile and an unmistakable Georgia drawl. "Here to pray with us?"

"Sure am," Sam said politely. "Saw the announcement in the _Guiding Light,_ got down here quick as I could."

The woman beamed at him, handing over a stack of pamphlets. "Bless you."

"You, too," Sam replied, hoping that'd been the right thing to say as he headed inside.

The tent was hot and bright, smelling like dry earth, sun-heated fabric, and sweat. It was the middle of the day in Texas, and even though it was November, it had to be at least eighty degrees. Sam was glad he'd worn a short-sleeved shirt even as sweat began to pool in the small of his back, where a gun and his knife were stashed, and the palms of his hands. The shiny paper of the pamphlets he was holding began to pucker and wrinkle.

There were a lot of people in here, which Sam had been able to tell from the parking lot. Most of them were milling around, greeting each other like old friends. He saw a lot of Bibles. And guns. He probably could've worn his own on his hip, if he'd owned a holster. The chatter of the crowd pressed on his eardrums like a physical force.

When was the last time he'd been somewhere with so many people? Maybe orientation his senior year, when he'd started at a place with a couple thousand upperclassmen alone. The air felt thick and dead in Sam's mouth, hard to breathe, and he told himself it was just the heat.

There was a stage up at the front, a microphone, speakers, and a slew of religious paraphernalia resting on it, and a sea of plastic folding chairs arranged neatly in rows facing it. About half were still empty. Sam chose one in the middle, next to a woman holding a toddler on her lap. She had a paper fan and the toddler had a soda.

The toddler stared and her mother smiled. Sam barely managed one in return, then faced forward.

He should've expected this. He didn't think of himself as super introverted or anything, but big crowds also weren't his favorite. It'd been nearly eight years since he'd been in a room with more than three or four people at a time. He'd been off ever since Kubrik's call, what it'd meant and what he'd said nipping constantly at Sam like a spider trapped under the covers. And this was also the first time he'd been away from Dean since that call.

He took a deep breath of the heavy air and summoned his father's voice: _Man the hell up already, Sammy._

The crowd settled down before long, everybody finding their seats. A guy sat on Sam's other side, shorter than him by a couple of inches but much broader, folding his arms over his chest and spreading his knees. The roar dropped to a murmur as one of the women from the table outside mounted the stage, snapping her way to the microphone on high heels. She leaned in and smiled. Everyone winced at the squeal of feedback, especially the toddler to Sam's right, and the woman laughed embarrassedly.

"Sorry 'bout that, y'all," she apologized. "Let's get started, shall we?" She brought her hands together. "First of all, lemme just welcome everybody who came out today. It is so clear to me that all y'all not only heard the Lord's call, but answered it!"

There was a massive cheer at that. Beaming, looking like she was about to start jumping up and down with excitement, the woman waited until it faded away.

"We got a real special mission today," she told them all, sounding like she was telling a secret. "We are _saving_ a _soul_. Together with God, we are gonna take this sinner, and we are gonna raise him all the way up outta the flames of Hell!" She punched a fist into the air. There was another cheer. "Speaking of God, no way is He gonna hear us without His Voice." The capital letter was clear. "That's why we got the man who has been blessed with a direct line to the Lord since he was just a little child. And not only does he tell Him all 'bout what we got to say, He talks right back and lets His Voice here on Earth tell us all 'bout what He's got to say. We are all truly blessed to be here, in the presence of this holy man and his noble mission. I feel the Holy Spirit, I tell you. Do you?"

A resounding _"YES!"_ rolled through the tent. Sam mouthed it.

"Then without any further ado, I give you the man who speaks for God Himself!" She backed away from the microphone, throwing her hands out towards the far side of the stage. "Father Eddie Norton!"

The applause was deafening, shouts and whoops and whistles rising above it. Sam dropped his now-damp pamphlets to clap. Next to him, the toddler began to cry, letting go of her soda so she could put her pudgy hands over her ears. Sam could barely hear her, but her mother tried to shush her as a man swept into the tent through a side entrance.

Father Norton certainly had a commanding presence. Sam would give him that. He was shy of six feet by quite a bit, silver-brown hair thinning significantly in front and on top, and sun damage pocked and pitted his cheeks. As soon as he set foot on the stage, the congregation fell into a reverent near-silence. Even the toddler subsided into quiet hiccups and whimpers.

Norton wore white preacher's robes and oversized sunglasses. Sam shifted in his seat, clearing his throat slightly and trying to throw off the Jim Jones vibes he was getting.

"Oh, my brothers and sisters!" Norton declared, in a voice that would've boomed even without the microphone. "I cannot even _tell_ you how good it does my heart, to see so many of the righteous and faithful here today!"

Sam wondered, for a second, why _he_ was here. All he really needed to do was talk to the poor idiot who'd sold his soul a decade ago and convince him to let Sam kill one of his hellhounds. Was it really necessary for him to sit here and suffer through the heat and the crowd and...this?

 _Yes_. He answered his own question with a mental sigh. It was necessary to blend in, to win people's trust. Maybe even Father Eddie Norton himself. If the victim wouldn't talk to Sam directly, he'd probably be the best in.

Plus, Sam reminded himself in a forcible effort to be positive for once, he might learn something. He really, _really_ doubted it. But maybe.

"We do indeed have a very special task before us today," Norton continued. "Yes? But before we get started, I have some very dark news. My wife, Maureen, my ever-faithful partner in my most holy cause, is very ill. In fact, she's in the hospital."

Gasps all around.

"Oh, it's the Devil," he went on, "of course it is. He's been dogging me since the day I was born. Of course he can't get to me, 'cause I've got the _Lord's_ protection, so he goes after those I love." He sounded like he was about to cry. "Maureen's not doing well, but there'll be a collection plate coming around soon, and with all the donations I know you wonderful people are gonna give us, God's told me we'll be able to pay for the care she needs. And she'll pull through!"

As everyone cheered, Sam glanced to his left. The guy sitting beside him looked back and raised his eyebrows in a "can-I-help-you" kind of way. Sam returned his attention to the stage, embarrassed, and realized he was looking for Dean. He would've been the only one he could share an eye-roll with, over blaming anything on a Devil who'd been caged since the dawn of humanity. Let alone a likely-fake illness meant to milk cash out of people.

"God's also told me you need to buy my book," Norton told them all. "Because you know it's just _chock-full_ of His word."

Sam looked down at the program in his lap, unfolding it to try and figure out how long this was going to last. Unfortunately, there wasn't any sort of time estimate in there.

"Most of you know I've got a series of DVDs, too..."

Norton kept talking, but Sam stopped paying attention, distracted by someone forcing their way down his row. People shifted, whispered harshly, and a voice that might as well have had its rhythms tattooed on Sam's eardrums muttered, "Yeah, I know, sorry, 'scuse me." When the intruder stopped in front of the man sitting right next to Sam, he looked up and saw the green eyes and freckles he'd been expecting.

Sam's first reaction was a kneejerk burst of happiness in the middle of his chest, quickly followed by _Oh, no._

"Hey, man," Dean said quietly. "Think you could move to a different seat so I can have this one?"

The guy shook his head. "Sorry, bud. Should've got here sooner." He motioned for Dean to move out of the way. "C'mon. You're blocking the stage."

"Yeah, sorry. Please?" Dean stared down at him. "It's important."

"Not my problem," the guy stated. "You gonna get lost, or are we gonna have an issue?"

"Okay." Dean leaned down, got in his face. Sam watched him hard, but didn't see his eyes go black, or so much as one hair in the guy's short beard move telekinetically. _"Move it."_

Without another word, the guy stood up. Dean gave him the room to do it, then dropped into his empty seat as he headed up the row towards the aisle, stepping on toes and bumping into knees.

"Thought you were gonna wait out in the car," Sam mumbled to Dean.

"Yeah, that was a great plan." Dean grabbed Sam's hand, down between their thighs so no one would see. His palm was cool and dry against Sam's sticky one. "But there's another demon here."

The mother of the toddler on Sam's other side looked sharply at them, and Dean flashed her a winning smile. "Figure of speech. Sorry, ma'am, didn't mean to spook you...cute kid, by the way." He dropped his voice, lower than it'd been before. "Crossroads. Probably the one that closed the deal."

"Where?"

Dean dipped his head just a little, towards the front of the tent. Right up by the state.

"Can it feel you?"

"Oh, hell no." Dean paused. "I'm sorry. I know we said I was gonna keep my distance so I didn't screw this up for us, but I just...didn't feel right leaving you alone."

"It's okay." The background anxiety that'd been churning and gnawing in the pit of Sam's stomach had faded, a sparking fuse plunged into cold water. Ironic, now that he knew there was a crossroads demon in here with them. "I'm...glad you're here." He squeezed Dean's hand.

Dean turned to smile at him, and Sam knew he could feel what he felt. The relief, the affection. For a couple seconds, they were alone in the tent. Sam felt safe, something that'd been rare for him for as long as he could remember, even when he'd had his own secure home. The knowledge he could lose it all had plucked at him every day at the cabin, often muted but never gone. Dean made him feel safe. Was the only thing that did these days. He didn't want to ever give that up.

The moment ended quickly, of course. Dean dropped the smile and looked up at the stage. But he kept his grip on Sam's hand.

Norton was wrapping up his sales pitch, finally. "Well, now. I guess it's about time we got started on what we all came here to do, isn't it?" A laugh from the crowd. "We are savin' a soul. We are rippin' it right outta the clutches of the Devil, where it's been since our man sold it to him ten years ago. We have today a sinner who had realized the error of his ways and wants to return to the path of the righteous. And God will hear his plea, with our help." He turned towards the entrance he'd come through, expectant. "Some of you may recognize his name, after how long he spent in that modern-day Sodom Los Angeles, in bondage to that mill of Satanism and sins of the flesh: the music industry. _Rock'n'roll_." His voice dripped with disgust, and when Sam looked at Dean, the corners of his mouth were twitching in amusement. "You would not expect him to be here, seeking salvation, but please, my children. Welcome Blue Wilson."

Surprise rippled through the crowd before they began to clap again. Sam's eyebrows rose, and he straightened in his seat. Norton was right, he recognized the name, and it was definitely unexpected.

"Who the hell's that?" Dean leaned over so he could mutter in Sam's ear.

"Uh, pop star," Sam murmured back, very reluctantly letting go of Dean's hand so he could clap. Blending in. "He was really big when I was in high school, but he's been off the radar for...jeez, years."

"When you were in high school," Dean repeated. "So. 'Bout a decade ago." He settled back into his own seat as the clapping died down and another guy mounted the stage. "Definitely our guy, then, I'd say."

Sam remembered Blue from CD covers and torn-edge magazine pages taped to the insides of lockers. Kara had had a poster of him hanging on the wall of her room, and everything about that place had been stamped into the wet clay of his memory, since he'd lost his virginity there. Back then, Blue's thick blonde hair, sharp gray eyes, and chiseled abs easily sold music Sam hadn't ever really cared for. Now...well, he looked like hell, even though he'd only be in his early thirties at the latest.

The hair was thinning, everything that was left shot through heavily with silver. Sam felt a flash of sympathy, his own very recent hair issues coming immediately to mind. Blue's eyes were washed out and pale, the red edges and heavy bags pointing to chronic sleeplessness, and he'd put on weight, so the abs were gone. The polo and jeans he wore were rumpled like he'd just gotten off a plane, and even as he waved and smiled his way across the stage, he looked exhausted and hollow. Haunted.

Norton obligingly stepped back, giving Blue the microphone. The way he easily grabbed it off the stand, he was obviously used to handling one. He scanned the crowd with his bloodshot eyes as he started speaking, mostly just looking at the first row.

"I'd like to thank - " Blue began, then abruptly cut himself off with a little choking noise, staring down in horror at something directly in front of him. His eyes bugged, his throat worked.

And then he screamed. Sam winced heavily, hands going to his ears; mortal terror magnified by a microphone was like a screwdriver to the cochleae. The system overloaded, sound cutting out a second before Blue dropped the mic and bolted. He was off the stage and out of the tent in a matter of seconds, loudly knocking a crucifix and an easel holding a poster board of Jesus over in the process, leaving behind a shocked silence.

Nothing happened for a moment, then people began murmuring to each other, confused. The toddler was crying again, and her mother put her fan away and got up. Looking exasperated and embarrassed, she kicked the fallen soda from earlier out of the way and started to leave, mumbling apologies every time she had to squeeze past someone. On the stage, Norton stepped forward and picked up the microphone, probably trying to regain control of the situation. As he tapped and shook it to try and get it to work again, Dean chuckled quietly.

"Guess he saw the crossroads demon."

It wasn't just the woman with the toddler. Norton, still wrestling with the mic, raised a hand and called, "We'll have this all sorted out real quick, promise...patience is a virtue," but a handful of people all over the tent were rising to leave. Sam saw his chance and took it, doing his best to look as hot and tired and shaken as all the others when he got to his feet. Dean joined him.

Sam should've felt relieved, getting out of the tent. As relieved as he had when Dean had come in. And he did, at first. Until he happened to glance out across the sea of faces and realized he recognized a few.

They were scattered, probably not working together, probably not even aware each one of them wasn't the only hunter here. A couple wore the usual protective layers that were almost a uniform, a couple were dressed more like Sam, but they all had the same wary, alert look in their eyes. He'd seen them at the Roadhouse when he'd still been recovering, in the background at hunter gatherings, maybe up at his cabin once or twice. He didn't remember their names or if he'd ever talked to them, with the exception of one guy he was almost positive had brought him a box of naga eggs once.

Sam didn't see Kubrik. In fact, he didn't see anyone he knew for sure hated him or was connected to Gordon. That didn't seem to matter to his body, though, which reacted like he'd seen someone's eyes change color. Galloping heart, fresh crop of sweat, the whole nine yards. Not to mention what happened in his head.

Sam looked away. He could only hope they didn't see him, or that they wouldn't recognize him without three-quarters of the hair he'd used to have if they did. He could feel Dean's eyes on him. Because, of course, he'd noticed. Sam didn't say anything, just put a hand on the small of his back and hurried him out of the tent.

His phone, so new he hadn't even given the number to Ellen or Garth or Charlie yet, was heavy in his pocket. He'd turned it off before coming in here, but he still kept expecting it to buzz against his thigh, or ring loudly. He was afraid he'd answer it. He was afraid he wouldn't be able to hang up.

Dean waited until they got to the car (which, black and full of leather under the blinding afternoon sun, felt like a dragon lair when Sam climbed in) to say anything. His voice was perfectly casual, but Sam didn't buy it.

"This whole thing's shaping up to be heavier than we thought," Dean commented. The steering wheel had to be searing, but it didn't seem to bother him when he put a hand on it. "Big name, demon showing up early..."

"There are other hunters here, too," Sam said grimly. "Don't know why I'm surprised." He sighed, dropping his head and running a hand through his hair. "I mean, I should've expected it. We _look_ for stuff like this, and it's a clear-cut hellhound case. Opportunity to kill a demon. Of course they'd come."

He knew they probably hadn't seen him, but he wanted to say they might've. He knew no one but Dean had his number, but he wanted to ditch his phone anyway. He wanted to _leave_. But he knew he couldn't. He covered his face with both hands, dragged the fingers through his hair again. He still had a scab on the back of his head where the ghoul in Montana had ripped out a handful of hair.

Sam realized Dean was looking at him. When he returned the favor, he saw that he was slowly shaking his head.

"Don't do this, man," he stated.

Sam straightened up and licked his lips, which were starting to chap again in the heat. "Don't do what?"

 _"This."_ Dean stuck the keys in the ignition, and hot air from the vents immediately blasted Sam. "The spiraling. The freaking out. What you do every single time something goes wrong, or seems like it's gonna go wrong, or - " He threw up a hand. "Might possibly someday go wrong. Pretty sure I've told you this before, but you are just a ball of nerves, Sam. Makes you a good researcher, good hunter, but...shit." He shook his head again. "You're gonna give yourself an ulcer before you're thirty."

"So you think I shouldn't be worried about these hunters?" Sam wasn't nearly as bitchy as he could've been. He didn't even point out that stress didn't actually cause ulcers.

"Not like you are," Dean replied, pulling out. "Not like you're getting."

"You know why I'm worried."

"Yeah." Dean looked at him, turning his head slowly. "I do. That call you got from one of 'em back in Oregon. It's been eating you all week."

Sam swallowed, hard. Dean hadn't said anything. But it was a guarantee he'd felt that Sam hadn't been able to let it go, despite the talk that they'd had. He somehow could never remember that his emotions were an open book to Dean.

"You remember when we had that fight?" Dean's voice was quiet, and Sam was sure he heard concern in it. "'Bout how we're a couple but neither of us were acting like it?" He waited for Sam to nod before he went on. "Well, you're doing it again. Not like you were before, but kinda. You aren't letting me help you. You aren't talking to me. You're my partner and I'm doing my damnedest to treat you like it. Least you can do is show me that same respect, don't you think?"

"You're right. I - " Sam rubbed at his eyes, screwing up his face as auroras of black colors spiked across the insides of his lids. "Jesus. I'm sorry." He dropped his hand. "I'm just...I guess I didn't wanna talk about it. Or think about it. He got my number somehow, and it had to've come from Charlie, or Ellen, or Garth, or - "

"D'you really believe that?" Dean interrupted. "D'you _honestly_ believe any of 'em would've sold you out like that? Ellen's the only one I know, but I've heard you talk about 'em, and I know how you feel when you're thinking about 'em. This isn't on them, and you need to do yourself a favor and figure that out. Just like when you figured out they weren't gonna disown you over killing Gordon. There are lots of other ways to get a number."

Sam sighed, leaning back in the seat. He knew he'd had a nap earlier but he was already tired again. After a second, Dean reached over and grabbed his thigh, right above the knee. He squeezed.

"It's okay to be upset," he said softly. "But I don't like the way you let it take over. And I'm the friggin' _king_ of unhealthy coping methods over here, nothing I hate more than talking about feelings, so that oughta let you know how worried I am about you." Sam half-smiled. "I'm your partner. You're mine. C'mon and, y'know, share the burden. So you don't get so goddamn worked up all the time."

Sam looked at Dean, and quietly said, "I don't think I deserve you."

"I mean, yeah." Dean agreed, but Sam got the feeling he meant it differently than he did. "Probably not."

"I'll try." Sam put one of his hands over Dean's. "Mostly 'cause I'm getting really sick of this conversation."

"Shit. Tell me about it." Dean kept his hand on Sam's leg, rubbing some, and it was quiet in the car as he drove them back to the motel. Dean hadn't even turned on the radio. When he spoke again, it startled Sam some. "So, I lied before. Few days ago, when you asked me about the hellhounds? I'm bothered."

Sam looked at him, and didn't say anything. Just squeezed his hand. It didn't seem like Dean needed any prompting.

"I haven't seen one since I died." His eyes were fixed on the road. "And I'd honestly be just fine never seeing one again, but not only am I gonna have to see a whole pack soon, I'm probably gonna have to get up close and personal with 'em." He laughed, weak and dry. "Kind of an understatement to say I'm not looking forward to it."

"Any way you can...control them?" Sam asked, shaking his head. "I mean, you're a demon."

"Not a crossroads demon, though," Dean replied with a sigh. "Hellhounds only do what they say. Not a whole lotta exceptions out there. And most of 'em have specific handlers." He looked at Sam, and his voice got stronger. "That's okay, though. I can do this. I gotta do this. We got your knife, we've got angel blades, goofer dust...and I've got you. Like I said on the last case, all I want's you at my back." He quirked an eyebrow. "You do have my back, right?"

"Yes," Sam answered firmly, then asked, "Do you have mine?"

"You know I do." Dean looked relieved. Maybe because Sam was feeling better, maybe because the conversation was over, maybe because he'd gotten the thing about the hellhounds off his chest. Maybe all of the above. He cleared his throat. "So. Next step's talking to discount Justin Timberlake, and I think you oughta do that."

"Okay. Sure." Sam didn't bother asking how Dean had heard of Justin Timberlake and not Blue Wilson. "And what're you gonna be doing?"

"Hellhounds are invisible," Dean replied. "Not to me, obviously, but you can't see them. And since making you a demon's not really an option, we're gonna have to go with the other one: glass scorched by holy fire." He tapped the knuckles of one hand against the window, which meant, very briefly, he wasn't holding the wheel. It actually didn't bother Sam all that much. "You look through that, you can see hellhounds."

"I...didn't know that, actually," Sam admitted. Which was too bad, because he could think of half a dozen situations right off the top of his head where that would've come in handy.

Dean looked at him with wide eyes and exaggerated shock. "You serious?" he asked incredulously. "Do I really, actually know something you don't? The great Sam Winchester? Genius, uh, child prodigy, published author..."

"I mean, _self_ -published." Sam told himself he wasn't going to laugh. This kind of emotional whiplash couldn't be healthy. "And don't forget public enemy number one for about half the hunting community. Where'd you even find out about this?"

"Demon Tablet. My Prophet read it for me." Sam made his best "that-explains-that" noise and rolled his eyes. "Whatever, dude, you've read tons of stuff I've never even heard of. I used a magnifying glass for my First Trial. Occurred to me later it would've been way easier just to do it with a cheap pair of reading glasses, so that's what you're getting."

"Sure. That'll work." As they got closer to the motel, Sam studied Dean. "You sure about this?"

"What?"

"Splitting up. Again."

"Well...I'll come with you to Blue's place, if you want," Dean started. "But I really don't think it'd go well for us. We know he's hallucinating, and seeing demon faces, and my true face'd freak him out way more than whatever you're gonna look like to him. Plus, we both know you've got better people skills than me. Which ain't gonna change anytime soon." He looked at Sam again, pulling into the parking lot. "I know we got split up on the last hunt, and splitting up for the revival didn't work out, but we're okay. And it's not gonna take me long. There's holy oil in the trunk, I'll be there before you know it so we can work out a plan."

Sam sighed. He wished he didn't feel like a little kid, knee-high, clinging to the leg of Dean's jeans with both tiny hands and crying at nearly everything. Considering he did seem to need constant reassurance, though, it was a good thing Dean was so great at it.

"It's a good plan already," he told Dean, the car going still around them and the barely-cool air dying as Dean killed the engine. "I can't believe we're really doing this. Finally. Starting the Trials, closing the Gates. Saving the world."

"Hell, yeah, we are."

Dean grinned at him. He hadn't taken his hand off Sam's thigh for the whole drive, and Sam had unconsciously scooted down the bench seat to make it more comfortable for him. They were close. Close enough that falling into a kiss felt as natural as pulling a trigger. Even though they were out in a car, in Texas, in a town full of people who'd come for an old-fashioned prayer revival and hunters who might want to kill them.

The air conditioning faded fast, desert sunlight pouring down, and Sam was already sweating. But Dean's mouth was soft and cool, his callused hand dry when he wove his fingers through Sam's hair, and Sam swelled in his slacks. The very edges of their lips rested against each other when Sam broke the kiss so he could pant softly. His eyes were closed, but he didn't have to look at Dean's groin to know he wanted Sam as much as Sam wanted him right now. Sam was aching to lose himself in him, and let Dean erase the ruined orgasm of a few days ago. He swore his balls were still tender.

They were both hesitating, though. Sam could feel Dean holding back, and couldn't quite let himself loose enough to close that distance. They just sat there, arms around each other, in the increasingly-hot car for a minute. Two.

"We prob'ly oughta wait." Dean's voice was a husky murmur.

"Yeah." Sam let out a breath, slow, to try and calm himself down. "We can celebrate once I'm done."

They pulled apart, climbed out of the car, went up the stairs. Dean unlocked the door. Before they went in, though, Dean caught Sam in another kiss. The puffiest parts of his mouth just barely brushed against the corner of Sam's, but that was enough to yank him in like a magnet. And now they were really out in the open, kissing where anybody could see them, call them fags or recognize them or just straight up come at them like they were monsters. Sam knew Dean didn't care.

Sam didn't, either. If any of that happened, with Dean here, they could stop it. Sam felt safe again, like he had in the tent. He felt light and happy and full of hope about what they were going to do, kissing his boyfriend, his Knight.

His _partner_.

* * *

Dean drove Sam to Blue's hotel after he'd changed into a much more comfortable T-shirt and jeans. The gun and the knife were still tucked into his waistband, and he had a bag of goofer dust (collected from the graveyard in Montana) in his pocket.

"How d'you know where he's staying, anyway?" Sam asked, shaking his head. He'd redone his hair, too. No product; it'd just melt.

"Demon shit," Dean replied easily.

"Uh huh. And...that what you did to the guy in the tent, too? To get him to leave?" Dean just grinned at him. "Right."

Blue's place was, predictably, a lot nicer than theirs, a national chain with a sign none of the letters had burned out on and a parking lot that had clearly-painted lines. Dean ignored the spaces, just pulling up near the doors to let Sam out.

"He's on the fourth floor," Dean said as Sam opened the door, then grabbed his hand before he could climb out. It was just a brief squeeze, sliding over the gun calluses that'd covered up the pencil-holding ones during the summer, resting momentarily on the old, calcified breaks in Sam's fingers. But he felt the promise in it, to come back soon. And the firm belief that he could do this, would do this, could close the Gates Dean had never reached. "Room four-eighteen."

Swinging his legs out, Sam squeezed back and hoped Dean could feel the _I love you_ in it.

"Go get 'em, tiger." Dean drove off.

Sam went inside, took an elevator up to the fourth floor. He was more aware of the weapons he was carrying here than he'd been at the revival, but no one even seemed to notice him. He found Blue's room easily. He hesitated, wondering how hard it'd be to talk his way inside, then knocked on the door.

"Mr. Wilson?" he called, then waited. He didn't hear anything from inside. "My name is Sam Winchester." There was no need for the rock star aliases Dean was so fond of, or the FBI persona. Blue wouldn't be where he was if he didn't know at least a tiny sliver of the truth. "You've probably heard this a lot lately, but I'm here to help."

Finally, Sam heard noise in the room. There was the soft, springy sound that nice beds made when you got up off them rather than creaking. His bed at the cabin had sounded like that. Then footsteps shuffled across the floor, and a weight rested against the door, a grown man leaning on it. Probably to look through the peephole.

"You kidding me?" Blue's voice sounded thick, like maybe he'd been crying. "Sam Winchester? Seriously?"

That was not the reaction Sam had been counting on, and he didn't like it. Warily, he asked, "You...know who I am?"

"I'm guessing you're not here because of my messages." There was a _click_ as the lock disengaged, and then the door swung open. Blue looked exactly like he had in the tent, except maybe more tired now, his eyes more bloodshot. They were aimed firmly away from Sam. "Your face is, uh...you look like a zombie. But you don't look like what I saw back at the revival. Which I'm guessing was a demon." He closed his eyes, elaborated with a wave of his hand. "I found your website."

Sam looked down at the space between his boots and Blue's beat-up Chucks. There was a line of soil in the entrance to the room, low enough the door wouldn't mess it up when it was opened and closed. "I guess you did." He looked back up so fast he almost cricked his neck when his brain latched onto something else Blue had said. "Wait, what was that about the messages?"

"Oh," Blue said, like Sam had asked him about the weather. "Yeah. You know how you've got that function on your site where you can e-mail you directly?" Sam nodded and rubbed at his face, knowing exactly where this was going. "Yeah, I probably sent you, like, sixty or seventy of those over the past year. Asking if you could maybe help me with...this." He gestured vaguely and helplessly at basically everything. "I left a lotta comments on the relevant articles, too." He frowned. "Speaking of that. You might wanna rethink the whole comments section thing. There's kind of a lotta - "

"Yeah, I know." A sigh gusted out of Sam. "That's...why I haven't been checking my e-mail." It was like there was an iron chain sitting in his stomach, coiled and cold and heavy. He'd gone through the whole "consequences of not checking his e-mail" thing with Ash and still hadn't taken a look at his inbox in months. He made a mental note to do it the second this was all over, no matter what kind of toxic sludge came pouring out, because there might be more people like Blue in there. People who needed help. "I am so, _so_ sorry."

"Hey, man, no hard feelings, right?" Blue offered Sam a crooked smile that echoed the one on all the posters. "I mean, you're here to help me now. Right in the nick of time." He laughed, almost giddily. "Come in, come in. Tell me how you're gonna save my bacon."

Sam stepped carefully over the line of goofer dust and followed Blue into the room. He toed the door shut, looking around as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The windows were huge and clear, taking up almost an entire wall and bathing the room in butter-colored sunlight. There was dust on the low sills, too. The TV was a flatscreen, the fluffy duvet on the bed wasn't faded or torn at all, and there was even a computer sitting on a desk beside a vase of fresh flowers. There were no cheap prints hanging crookedly on the walls. Instead, a mural covered one, a stylized map of Texas with roads and rivers and towns drawn out in bright primary colors.

"So you left the tent 'cause you saw a demon?" Sam asked Blue, focusing on him rather than the not-stained carpet and the not-flat pillows.

"I mean, I'm pretty sure? Don't know what else it could be." Blue went over to a comfortable-looking armchair near the windows and sank into it, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. It made him look, oddly, like some kind of harried professor to Sam. "And your site said I'd be able to see their true faces once I started getting...y'know. Close." He sucked in a deep breath. "It looked like a dead person. And, I mean, everybody looks like dead people right now, but this one was way worse. It looked like it'd been _tortured_ before it died, like somebody cut it up and ripped stuff off it...it had these _huge_ red eyes." He cupped his hands in front of his face to illustrate. "And there was smoke coming out of it. All of its holes. Red and black smoke. And the smoke around its head made it look like it had horns. Kind of like a goat, I guess."

"Yep." Sam cleared his throat. "That was definitely a demon." Blue's description matched all the other ones he'd ever heard or received secondhand, all the way down to the horns. They all had horns. And based on what little Sam knew about it, the more powerful the demon, the bigger and more elaborate the horns. He wondered what Dean's looked like. "A crossroads demon, going off the red. Probably the one that holds your contract."

"It was awful." Blue hugged himself and clamped his eyes shut, like he was trying desperately to kill a bad memory. "I just. Couldn't take it."

Sam looked at him, seeing how the stress and the fear was eating him alive from the inside out, a bellyful of teeth and claws and acid. His life had fractured around him, stable ground crumbling. He was struggling to find a piece big enough to stand on. And yeah, he'd done this to himself, invited this in, given his kiss even after all the consequences had been listed, but none of them had been real back then. He never would've made the deal if they had.

Sam felt a rush of aching sympathy for much more than Blue's decaying hair. He went to sit on the corner of the bed near him, folding his hands in his lap and looking at him earnestly.

"Mr. Wilson," he started quietly.

"Just call me Blue." He let go of himself and forcibly relaxed his face, breathing deeply and slowly without opening his eyes. Sam recognized stress-management techniques he'd probably gotten from a therapist. "Which is _not_ the name I was born with; that's Ben. _Benton._ But I've been Blue for ten years, even had my name legally changed, pissed my dad off so much he wrote me outta his will. So...just call me Blue."

Sam had nodded his way through the mini-monologue, answering it with a "Right. Blue."

"I'm sorry." Blue sucked his lower lip into his mouth, worried at it with his teeth. "I'm a mess."

"It's okay," Sam assured. "You're doing great." He smirked a little. "I know what it feels like to have demons hunting you down. You're allowed to be a mess."

Blue's eyes popped open, and they were full of hope. "You made a deal?"

"No," Sam admitted. "Just did something that really pissed Hell off." He considered, then went on. "Several things. And it wasn't just me. But they came for me, and I'm kind of still on the run, technically. It's...not fun. But." He took a deep breath as he leaned forward and squared his shoulders. His gun pressed hard against his spine. "What if nobody ever had to go through this again? No deals coming due, no being chased. No going to Hell because of something you did years ago."

Blue just frowned. Sam continued.

"I know you've read about the hellhounds and how they'll be coming after you." Sam was actually pretty impressed with the initiative Blue had taken. A lot of people didn't. "I wanna kill at least one and, uh...bathe in its blood." He coughed, self-conscious, and Blue sat straight up in his chair, eyebrows so high up his forehead they looked like natural extensions of his receding hairline. "I know it sounds completely nuts. And gross. But it's the first step in a ritual that's gonna close the Gates of Hell."

"Hell's got Gates?" Blue asked doubtfully.

"Apparently." Sam tossed his hands up. "And closing them will seal it up forever. There won't be any demons anymore, or hellhounds, or - or damnation." He felt like he got a little better at it every time he gave this speech. "That's what I wanna do. Make a world without Hell."

"That...does sound pretty nice," Blue admitted. His hands were on his knees now, squeezing. His nails were a nightmare. Torn, bloody, the beds bruised dark where Blue'd worked his teeth in too deep. There was also a nearly-black nicotine stain splotched onto the sides of his index and middle fingers. "You killing a hellhound when it comes for me." He cleared his throat. "Will that...save me?"

Sam hesitated. "It'll definitely buy you some time," he promised after a moment. "The only surefire way to get you outta the deal is to kill the demon holding your contract, and we're gonna try really hard to do that. Shouldn't be a problem; it's in town and we can find it."

"Okay. Okay." Eyes blank, Blue stiffly nodded five or six times, loudly sucking air in and blowing it out. "Well. Even if I do wind up getting dragged to Hell, you should kill the hellhound and do what you need to. Just 'cause I'm gonna burn for eternity doesn't mean anybody else should have to, right?" He laughed, and Sam had spent enough time panicking himself to pick up on the hysteria sewn into the sound.

"Hey." Sam got up off the bed (which was really comfortable, no weird lumps or wayward springs) and walked over to Blue. "There's actually not all that much burning involved." That didn't get the reaction he'd hoped for. He wasn't good at jokes. He wished Dean were here, shitty people skills or not. "You're not going to Hell. My hunting partner - who, trust me, is _definitely_ not gonna let you go to Hell - is out making special glasses right now, ones that'll let us see the hellhounds."

"They're invisible," Blue mumbled.

"Yeah. But not when you're looking through glasses that've been treated with holy fire." Sam put a large hand on Blue's shoulder. His shirt was damp; he'd sweated through it, even in the hotel's crisp air conditioning. Sam gave him a comforting squeeze anyway. "When he gets back, we're gonna come up with a plan. We're gonna kill a hellhound and your demon."

Blue nodded again, more calmly this time. He was still chewing on his lip. "I guess I should trust you," he said softly. "I mean, you literally wrote the book on all this, didn't you?" He looked up at Sam. "D'you have any ideas right off the bat?"

"Well..." Sam looked over at the map, eyes bouncing from one large, empty space to another. "I'd rather not fight hellhounds on the fourth floor of a hotel."

"That's fair." Blue scooted out from under Sam's hand, freeing him to walk over to the wall. He heard Blue open a drawer in the nightstand and grab something out of it, then open the window the few inches it would let him. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see him pluck a cigarette out of the pack with his lips. The lower one was raw and swollen. "I'll go wherever you want me to."

Sam frowned. "Doesn't that mess with your voice?"

Blue snorted. "I don't sing anymore." He lit up with a cheap plastic Bic, blue. Of course. He angled his face towards the window he'd cracked, exhaling smoke through his nose, never touching the cigarette. He talked easily around it. "You smoke?"

"Uh, no." Sam shook his head. "My...dad would've killed me."

"Mine smoked like a chimney. Army." Blue was quiet for so long Sam figured he was done talking. He wasn't. "You must think I'm a fucking idiot."

"I don't think that." It was quiet, automatic, and true.

"Why not? I do." Reluctantly, Sam turned his attention back to the map as Blue smoked. "I didn't deal for a singing voice. A couple people in the congregation asked me that, but I could sing just fine. The trouble is everyone can, even in rural Iowa. Competition for a contract's fierce, even if you can make it to LA. Which I definitely couldn't. I sold my soul to be discovered."

"How'd you even know how to do the ritual?" There was a big, blank triangle, its points San Antonio, Houston, and Dallas, with Austin resting along the leg that was I35. Sam knew it was probably full of a thousand small towns. One of those might be good. "Not exactly common knowledge."

"My girlfriend back then was...witchy." Blue sighed. "Not a real witch. I read about those on your website, too. But she knew how to summon a demon. I thought it was bullshit, but I also thought I was gonna be the next Elvis, so I was desperate enough to try it."

"Was it worth it?" There wasn't a whole lot down by the border, either, but it'd be a long drive.

"I thought it was. For the first six years or so." There was a tapping noise, Blue knocking the ashes off his cigarette on the windowsill. Abruptly, he said, "I've got a son."

Sam turned and blinked at him, automatically noticing he hadn't disturbed the line of goofer dust by the window. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. He's seven." Blue put the cigarette back in his mouth. "There's probably more. I was...not a good person. _Am_ not a good person. There's probably more, but he's the only one I know for sure. I've been thinking about him a lot."

"You...close?" Sam asked tentatively. Blue mostly just seemed to need someone to listen to him.

"His mom hates me. She's, um. I don't blame her." Sam looked at the map again. He wished he had his laptop. The wifi was probably super fast here. "When you didn't get back to me, and when I got down to having weeks left instead of months, I heard Father Norton on the radio. 'You're going to Hell, of course you are, but I can _save_ you!'" Blue's impression was so spot-on it was honestly kind of eerie. "I thought it was a sign." Another sigh. "He's a huckster. Of course. Knew that as soon as I met him. But still, I...I figured...maybe, if I got enough people praying for me, all asking God to let me into Heaven or at least not send me to Hell..." He trailed off. "Doesn't really matter anymore. Didn't work. And today was it."

Sam paused. The light had gone from butter to the harsh, near-chemical orange you only got out in the desert, making him think of that Stephen King story about the haunted hotel room. "Wait." When he looked at Blue, he was lighting another cigarette off the butt of the first. "When." He cleared his throat. "When're you due?"

"Tonight."

Blue flicked the butt out the window. The cherry of his new cigarette was nearly invisible in the glow off the dying sun. Sam wondered if the howls he was suddenly picking up on the feathery edges of his hearing were real or imagined.

"Please," Blue implored quietly. "Help me."


	12. Chapter 12

_Magic is an extremely useful tool, from tracking spells to charms that are the only way to kill certain monsters. Some magic can only be performed by true witches, or_ _those born with a specific magical affinity, but there's plenty out there anyone can do._

 _Since witches (click here to learn about them) are one of the things we hunt, you might be wary about using magic. You might also be wondering about the hypocrisy of hunting witches and using magic yourself. Everyone defines a malevolent witch differently, but I personally draw the line here: if you're not hurting anyone or drawing your power from a demon, you're fine._

 _You'll want to be careful, though. You can do a lot of things with magic but it always has a price, and the higher the payoff, the more it'll cost. Simple rituals only require your time and the ingredients. Big ones, world-changing ones, will almost always physically harm someone. And if you're not a true witch who knows how to transfer and project, it's probably going to be you._

 _\- "10 Useful Spells You Should Know," posted on website of Sam Winchester_

* * *

"So..you and your partner," Blue began as they walked down the sidewalk outside the hotel, past a payday loan office and a liquor store and a McDonald's. "How long have you guys been working together?"

The sun was setting fast, the brilliant orange having dulled to the point where Sam had to squint to see his hand in front of his face in the last ten minutes. A dry wind had picked up, too, a cold one. Sam was genuinely glad he'd gotten his hair cut; it would've been whipping into his face if he hadn't. Desert heat was still coming up off the ground, but even that was fading away. It was feeling more like November by the second.

Sam had just called Dean. He was on his way, glasses at the ready. They'd go, Sam'd decided, to the fairgrounds, where the revival had been. He'd wondered if it was the right decision, taking Blue out of the safety of his room, but he could not fight hellhounds inside a hotel.

"Uh," Sam began, doing a quick mental calculation. "Going on eight months now." Just looking at Blue, he could tell that wasn't nearly as long as he'd hoped.

"Have you ever stopped a demon deal before?"

"Well...no," Sam admitted. " _I_ haven't. He might've. He's got more experience than I do." How honest should he be? "Like, five of those eight months were just training, since I was so rusty."

"...oh." Blue was hunching in on himself next to Sam, and Sam didn't think it was because he was cold, although the wind was raising goosebumps along his own bare arms. Blue'd grabbed a jacket before they left the room, and shoved a bag of goofer dust into one of the pockets. "So, I gotta ask, man. From your website, it sounded like you were all R and D. No fieldwork at all. Why'd you start, uh, out and hunting again?"

"Oh, wow." Sam blew out a huge breath. He was calm and determined, just like he'd been ever since a brief moment of panic in the hotel, but now he was tired, too. "That's a _long_ story."

He could tell Blue was going to press, insist he tell him, but Sam heard the throaty growl of a familiar engine before he could. He turned around, walking backwards, to see his father's car pull up to the curb, headlights bright in the dark. He wasn't even all that stressed. But he felt relieved anyway.

"Is that him?" Blue asked. "That's a _nice_ car."

Sam snorted. "Tell him that. He'll definitely keep you outta Hell." He and Blue glanced at each other, then Sam looked away, embarrassed, and cleared his throat.

The passenger side door swung open as they walked up to the car, Dean leaning across the seat to grab the handle and push. He offered the two of them (mostly Sam) a grin, eyes clear and green. "Hey there, stranger."

Next to Sam, Blue snapped stiff, then grabbed his shoulder so hard Sam heard his knuckles creak.

"Sorry," Blue said with a shrill, exaggerated calmness. "Just got a. Got a quick question. Gonna be just a minute."

He swung Sam around, impressive considering he was half a foot shorter, then practically dragged him up off the sidewalk and into a narrow alley. Sam could feel the tension humming off him. Blue was squeezing Sam's shoulder with one hand and the other was in his jacket pocket, with the goofer dust.

"He's a demon," Blue ground out before Sam could ask him what was wrong. Sam blinked. "Or. Maybe he's possessed? Whatever, it's a demon. I think. It looks a little different from the one I saw in the tent."

"Oh," Sam said. "Right." He coughed. "I probably should've told you about that."

Blue stared. "Are you...you _knew_? He's really a demon?"

"Holy shit," Dean yelled from behind them. "I'm a demon? Sammy, why didn't you tell me?"

Blue clapped a hand to his mouth, shaking, and it took Sam a second to realize he was trying not to laugh hysterically.

"Okay, yeah," Sam started, feeling like an idiot. He'd been so sure he had everything figured out, but he hadn't even thought of warning Blue about Dean. "He's a demon. A Knight of Hell, actually. His...Hell name or whatever is Dantalion." He pronounced it wrong on purpose. "But he's cool. I promise. Trust me, he's not gonna hurt you."

Blue looked entirely unconvinced. And pretty faint, grey around the eyes. He was still holding onto Sam tight, so Sam grabbed Blue's shoulder.

"You were on my website," Sam began soothingly. "You know where demons come from."

"I don't wanna turn into a demon," Blue blurted, voice thick.

"You won't." _Hopefully._ "But back when Dean was human, he was a hunter. My...mentor's son. They took him out because he was trying to close the Gates of Hell, and now he's helping me." Sam smiled a little. "I've been with him eight months. I've killed monsters with him. This past week, we dealt with another demon together, and that's not the first one I've seen him kill."

Blue didn't say anything, even when Sam encouragingly added "He's on our side." He just sucked in one deep breath after another, eyes fixed on nothing. The wind tore past the mouth of the alley. At least he let himself be led back to the car when Sam turned him around.

"You don't have to like it," Dean told Blue as soon as he was within earshot. He was sitting in the passenger seat, leaning out of the car. "I won't even call you racist. Us demons definitely have an image problem, am I right?" Dean cracked a smile. Blue didn't. "So, yeah. Don't have to like it, don't even have to get in, but we're your best shot at beating this."

"And we're a package deal." Sam spoke firmly, then shook his head. "I'm really sorry. I should've...I should've told you about him."

"It's...okay." Reluctantly, Blue opened the door and climbed into the back seat. Dean slid over behind the wheel, Sam got in, and they pulled away from the curb. Sam's Carhartt was in the footwell. He gratefully shrugged into it.

Dean kept one hand on the wheel, but took Sam's with the other as soon as they were back on the road. He held it down on the seat between them, where Blue couldn't see, and his callused thumb ran over and over Sam's large knuckles in a slow rhythm. He didn't look at Sam and Sam couldn't feel much there, with all the scar tissue. Warmth sank through him anyway, and it wasn't the jacket or the heater Dean had running.

"Keep hearing howls," Blue mumbled once they were about halfway there. "Getting closer."

"'S just the wind," Dean replied. All three of them knew it wasn't.

Blue was so clearly right at the edge. He kept fidgeting in the back, apparently unable to sit still, and Sam could hear his shallow breaths rasping loud in his mouth. At one point, there was a soft click of metal and the _shuff_ of paper sliding against itself.

"Light that in my car and I'll set your whole face on fire," Dean stated, and Sam twisted in his seat to see Blue shamefully putting a pack of cigarettes back in his pocket.

"Right, sorry," he mumbled, eyes fixed on his feet. "I'm sorry, Lord...?...Dandelion."

"He's not gonna do that," Sam told Blue as Dean exhaled forcefully through his nose. "But, yeah, probably shouldn't smoke in here."

Blue was silent, tucking himself into the corner of the seat on Sam's side, as far from Dean as he could get. Dean must've picked up on how scared he was, because he spoke to him in as gentle a voice as he seemed to be able to manage.

"Hey," he said. "Once the hellhounds are all dead, we're gonna give you a hex bag that'll hide you from demons. And then you'll be golden."

"They won't be able to find me again?"

"Not if you keep moving." Sam faced forward. "You might not even have to. Hex bags can work wonders, especially with lower-level demons."

He could all but feel Blue's panic, pounding against him like an ocean, but there weren't any answering waves inside Sam. He was just focused on stopping it for Blue. On completing the Trial. On doing what he'd set out to do.

His hand was still in Dean's. Dean squeezed it gently.

By the time they got to the fairgrounds, a bright sliver of crescent moon had risen in the clear sky, and the wind had died down some. The tent, still up, swelled and snapped whenever a gust rolled through. When Sam peeked inside, he saw it was as empty as the parking lot outside. No chairs, no people, just ruffled dirt and trash that seemed to be mostly Father Norton's pamphlets. And the stage, bare and lonely.

"This is good," Sam decided. They'd be able to hear it if a hellhound ripped through the fabric, at least.

He shook out a circle of goofer dust up on the stage, then waved Blue (who'd been practically glued to him since they got out of the car) into it, eyes wide in the darkness. The white roof of the tent glowed with moonlight above him, but it wasn't quite enough. He was grateful when Dean passed him a flashlight along with the glasses he'd treated, a simple pair of wire rims.

"Thanks." Sam slipped them on. He'd never needed glasses, so they felt weird against his ears and nose. He clicked the button on the flashlight and immediately looked at Dean, then frowned.

"Oh, good, they fit," Dean commented. "Had a hell of a time finding a pair I didn't think'd squeeze your giant face." He noticed Sam's frown. "What?"

"Nothing." Sam'd been hoping he'd be able to see Dean's true face with the glasses on, understand what'd scared Blue so bad he couldn't look anywhere near Dean even now. His eyes kept skating away whenever Dean got close to his circle. Obviously, though, it didn't work that way.

"Hey, uh," Blue called from the stage, voice week. "What - what now?"

"We wait," Dean called, then looked up at the stage. Blue immediately dropped his gaze. "Christ, man, you're shakin' like a leaf...you can smoke now, if you want." Dean turned his attention back to Sam as Blue fumbled in his pockets and then quickly gave up. Dean stepped in close to Sam and dropped his voice. A casual hand landed low on Sam's back, near his hip. "So. What's your plan?"

Sam laughed and, for the first time since the hotel room, felt a flicker of anxiety. "I don't really have one."

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

"Well..." Sam shifted his weight from one foot to the other, leaning into Dean's touch. "There's gonna be more than one hellhound, and I figure you and I are gonna take out most of 'em." Now that he was thinking of it, he reached back and grabbed his knife out of his jeans with his free hand. "We'll leave one alive. A bowl's too hard, so I guess I was sort of thinking you'd hold it and I'd kill it? Cut it, so it bleeds on me. I don't know." He glanced down at his jacket. "Just remind me to take this off before I, uh, bathe in its blood, though, 'cause it was expensive and I'd rather not ruin it."

"You're such a girl," Dean said, snorting, but then gave Sam a pat. "Anyway. That sounds like a plan to me."

A smirk was tugging at the corner of Sam's mouth when Dean suddenly looked away from him, towards the tent's entrance. He wasn't freaked out or anything. His hand didn't even tighten on Sam.

"We've got company."

Sam had no time to ask what he was talking about before someone stepped into the opening, just a black silhouette against the soft light outside. Sam aimed the flashlight at them, knife at the ready, as the calm inside him cooled and crystallized into something harder.

It was a woman, late thirties or early forties. Sam didn't think he'd seen her at the revival, but doubted he'd remember if he had. She didn't exactly stick out. Jeans and a tee, flat brown hair, average face. Her only stroking feature was her eyes, black with a galaxy of red in the middle. Up behind Sam, Blue made a wet noise, sounding like he was about to throw up.

"Well, well, well," the crossroads demon said, amused. The flashlight didn't seem to bother her at all. "I knew there were hunters here. Of course. But you two are obviously the cream of the crop. I mean, you actually got a hold of my target; all the others either left town or tried to talk to the 'Voice of God.'" Her eyebrows rose, and she looked from Sam's knife to the angel blade Dean must have been hiding in his jacket until now. " _And_ you're packing the real deal, I see. Aren't I a lucky girl?"

 _She doesn't know who we are_ , Sam realized, the revelation hitting him all of a sudden. She didn't recognize Dean's vessel, couldn't feel what he was. And she didn't know Sam from Adam.

Either Hell's brass hadn't gotten around to putting the word about them out to the crossroads demons, or she was one of the free agents Dean had mentioned. Hadn't been consolidated. The researcher in Sam wondered which one it was; the rest of him just recognized a lucky break.

"Not that it's going to do you any good," the demon went on. "I knew Blue was trying to welch. That's why I brought my whole pack along, just in case he picked up someone who actually knew what they were doing."

There was no way for Sam to mistake the howl he heard, eerie and wavering, for the wind or his imagination. The demon smiled, Blue moaned from deep in his chest, and a thin worm of fear broke through Sam's icy determination.

Dean shifted towards him, just barely. Sam got the message loud and clear: _She can feel it, too._ He locked down on what he was feeling, brought it back under control.

The demon smiled at him in a "you're-not-fooling-me" kind of way. "Nothing to say? What's the matter, dog got your tongue?" She faked concern. "Well, boys, it's been a blast, but...I think I'm going to send in the 'hounds now. I'll be back in an hour or two to show the reaper the paperwork and collect your souls. _All_ your souls, hopefully." She grinned. "Three for the price of one! I'm going to make employee of the month!"

She was gone in the space of Sam's next blink. A howl, closer than the first, rose above the low whistling of the wind, then a second, then a third. An involuntary shiver twitched through Sam. It was truly cold now, temperature falling through the forties or maybe even the thirties, and his hands were starting to hurt. There was a hollow _thud_ behind him. Blue'd fallen to his knees on the stage, face numb with horror, white showing all the way around his irises.

"Hey, man, c'mon, buck up," Dean said, voice encouraging. It was pretty obvious he was forcing it, but at least he was trying. "We're in the worst of it now and we're gonna make it through. She ain't comin' back. Not once she realizes we ganked all her 'hounds."

Blue didn't respond, just audibly swallowed and then began to violently tremble. Dean gave up on him and turned his attention to Sam. "How 'bout you? You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm...fine," Sam assured Dean, because if he said anything else, it wouldn't be true anymore.

Dean hesitated, and Sam could all but see him fighting with himself. One side won out and he stepped close again, closer than he'd been before, only inches between them, foreheads barely touching and breath warm and vaguely sulfurous on Sam's face. It was more intimate than a kiss, somehow.

"Bet he wishes he felt as good about this as you do," Dean murmured, clearly talking about Blue as he cupped the back of Sam's head with one hand.

"I know we're gonna pull this off." Sam let his nose rest against Dean's, although the glasses made it awkward.

Another tiny hesitation from Dean. "Yeah, but...he's still going to Hell. You know that, right? Even with the hellhounds gone, even with the hex bag. Soon as he dies, the reaper's taking him straight down. He's marked."

"No." Sam pulled back. Dean let go of him. "He's not. He won't be. Know why?" He drew in a breath of cold air. "Because the Gates are gonna be closed years before he dies. By me."

It was hard to tell in the dark, with his flashlight currently pointing down at the dirt, but Sam thought Dean might be smiling at him. Proud. It didn't last long. Another howl, so loud it vibrated in Sam's skull, rolled through the tent and ended in a snarl. Something ripped past the heavy canvas wall like wet paper, and Blue yelled.

Sam whirled and there, exactly as he'd been expecting, was a hellhound. He'd heard them described in mythology as red-eyed black dogs, seen drawings of them where they were woven out of tortured souls and scraps of meat. There were no eyewitness accounts. The only people who could see them (the damned) pretty much never survived the encounter.

It was a distortion in the air, transparent, the shadows of flames and lightning rippling upwards around the shape of a massive dog. The legs were long, the back hunched and muscular, and even though there was only the suggestion of teeth in the gaping mouth, that was enough to show how sharp they were. Dull red eyes, screened by its aura, were fixed cold on Blue.

It prowled slowly into the tent through the hole it'd ripped. Sam tensed, ignoring his kneejerk instinct to charge right at it. He was back-to-back with Dean, like they'd been in the graveyard in Montana, and it didn't seem to have even noticed them yet.

 _Wait until it gets closer. Hold the position._

"Least a dozen more where that one came from." Dean's voice was tense and he pressed his broad shoulders right up against Sam's. "They're just circling." Sam felt Dean's head turn slightly. "Hey. That gun you got in your jeans. It's loaded with salt rounds, right?"

Sam snorted as quietly as he could manage. "Course. They're dipped in holy water, too."

"Awesome." Fabric ripped on Dean's side of the tent as another hellhound entered, growling low. "Until you're actually gutting one, then, put your knife away and get your gun out. Won't have to get as close that way."

It was good advice. Sam took it, thumbing the safety off as soon as the gun was in his hands. "Sure these bullets'll drop 'em? I didn't think guns could do the trick."

"Maybe a machine gun. Not a pistol." Sam heard a slide rack. Dean must've had one on him, too. "Hit 'em a couple times, though, and they usually turn tail. Not used to their prey fighting back, and these ones probably aren't trained super well, either."

Sam got it. Dean didn't want to get close enough to kill any until it was totally necessary, and looking at the mastiff-sized beast making its slow, predatory way to the stage, that was a plan Sam could get behind. He waited until the hellhound put a paw on the bottom step, wood creaking loudly under its weight. Then he took aim at the center of its considerable mass and squeezed off a shot.

He hit it directly in the ribs. Black blood exploded off it and its rippling aura swirled around the wound. It yelped, the sound needling Sam's heart even though he knew it wasn't a real dog, and then snarled ferociously. The huge head swung towards him. There was more yelping and snarling behind him as Dean fired three rounds, one right after the other. From the sound of it, they all found their mark.

Sam's hellhound charged and he held his ground, pressing back hard against Dean. At least it'd forgotten about Blue. Sam squeezed the trigger again, hit it right in the face this time, a thrill rolling through him. It jerked back, staggering, whimpering and shaking blood from its head, then looked at Sam and his gun. It snarled weakly before it turned and bolted through the hole it'd made coming into the tent.

"Attaboy." When Sam glanced over his shoulder, he found Dean's face, grinning at him. The expression was a little tight. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Be nice if they were all that easy," Sam agreed, breath coming hard and heart hammering in his chest.

They weren't. Of course they weren't. But Sam hadn't really been expecting them to be. Dean drove his hellhound off and then the two of them got a quick thirty-second breather, Blue whining softly to himself behind them. Then a chorus of howls hit, rising steadily as an orchestral symphony, and the rest of the pack converged. They tore their way into the tent like the first two had, stalked through existing holes, came in through the front. They all gathered in front of the stage, a lake of flickering shadows and red eyes and teeth. The combined growls rattled in Sam's breastbone, worse than the recoil of his handgun. There were at least ten. It was hard to count when they were so close together, their distortions and auras overlapping.

"Shit," Sam breathed, as he and Dean separated and backed slowly up against the stage. The hellhounds padded forward with every step they took, leaving huge prints in the dirt. "Shit, shit, shit..."

"Yeah," Dean agreed grimly. "Shit." He offered his gun to Sam and pulled his angel blade out. Sam was close enough now to see the duct tape he'd wrapped around the handle so he didn't have to touch it. "Okay, new plan. I'm gonna pick off as many evil Rin Tin Tins as I can, and you keep the rest from reaching the stage." He glanced behind him. "And Mr. Big-shot Pop Star back there from cutting and running, 'cause he ain't looking so hot."

"All right," Sam agreed, putting Dean's gun in the pocket of his jacket for when his own ran out of ammo. He took a look at Blue and personally thought he seemed frozen with fear, but he'd keep an eye on him anyway. "Let's do this. And remember to leave me one."

"You got it, baby," Dean replied, flashing another tight grin before he teleported. Sam put himself right in front of Blue, feet planted shoulder-width apart, and took aim at the closest hellhound.

These didn't run as easy as the first two had, even with a few bullets sunk into them. They took a few steps back when Sam hit them, snarled, flinched. Black blood spattered the dirt, steaming and glittering whenever Sam's flashlight swept over it. But they didn't take off, pushing closer and closer. Sam's jaw was clenching around the time his gun clicked empty, a wall of bleeding, growling hellhounds only a few yards away from him. The wire of his glasses dug into the soft skin on the bridge of his nose and behind his ears, sore and itchy.

Dean circled the flanks of the pack, popping in and out of view, angel blade in hand. Demons died instantly no matter where they got stabbed with one of those, but it had to be a fatal blow with a hellhound, to the skull or the heart or an artery. Dean was better at wounding them as they turned to snap or lunge at him. His carefully-controlled expression wasn't convincing.

He finally killed one as Sam watched, the body melting into the dirt after it slumped to the ground, and then three came right at him. No - four. They pushed him towards the far side of the tent, herding him. They dodged his blade and it looked like they could tell where he was going to teleport. Even from here, even in the dark, Sam could see the all-too-human fear slipping through the cracks in his mask. Dean's gun kicked in Sam's hand as he tried to focus on him, the hellhounds, and Blue all at once.

One of Dean's hellhounds caught him in the leg. It was just a glancing blow, but his jeans tore and there was blood. The wound steamed. Dean's eyes flickered black, raw panic flooding his face, and Sam's own leg cramped in sympathy and his chest went tight.

"Dean!" he yelled. Dean's fake calm came back and he offered him a thumb's-up with his free hand at the same time the hellhound at the front of Sam's pack slammed forward, taking advantage of his distraction. It was the main one Sam'd been focusing on, four bullet holes already in it. Sam just about destroyed its face now, firing over and over again between its eyes and into its mouth, as he pressed himself against the stage so hard it left a bruise. The hellhound turned away right before it reached him, gurgling whimpers out through what was left of its muzzle.

Sam forced himself to stop shaking as it fled through one of the gaping holes in the tent. His hands and the arms of his jacket were flecked with blood and flesh that tiny, shadowy flames were still wavering off of. Was that enough for the Trial? Probably not.

"We're gonna die," Blue mumbled. Sam could barely hear him over the growling and snapping of the hellhounds. "I'm going to Hell. They're gonna tear you apart."

"Nope," Sam replied shortly. He put his hands on the stage and swung himself up onto it. The pack pressed closer, but when Sam lifted Dean's gun again (not even sure how many bullets were left in it), they scattered. Some just shied away, most ran off. A breathless laugh burst out of Sam, then another one when he saw Dean hit one of his hellhounds between the ribs, shove the body off his blade, and turn to the others with new bravery. "Not so tough without your leader, are you?"

The remaining hellhounds snarled and held their ground. Sam turned to check Blue's circle of goofer dust, just for a second. He barely heard Dean desperately scream "Sammy - " before a shadow-wrapped missile of muscles and teeth knocked him off the stage.

He was on his back in the dirt. He'd dropped the gun and flashlight, but the knife was still in his jeans, the handle digging painfully into his spine. And there was a hellhound above him, desperately trying to crush his face in its jaws. Sam had both hands around its throat, squeezing hard and barely holding it back. He knew he wasn't gonna be able to strangle it.

It felt exactly like a dog, which he remembered from the captive one he'd killed. Smooth fur and hot flesh under the shadows. Its breath steamed his glasses solid white, reeking of sulfur and rotting meat, but he didn't have a free hand to pull them off. Sam could hardly breathe with its paws on his chest, claws digging into him even through his jacket. His elbows creaked and bent as his strength ran out, the hellhound forcing its way closer. Dean barreled into it right before it reached his nose.

Sam sat up and flipped himself over before he'd fully processed what'd just happened. Dean had taken the hellhound clean off him, buried his blade to the tape-wrapped hilt in its skull. Sam reached for the small of his back and grabbed his knife. The antler handle was alien against his cold-numb palm. And then there was a hellhound right in front of him, snarling, going for his chest or maybe his throat, and he stabbed it without thinking. He threw his whole weight behind his knife, right above its collarbone, and its whimper was cut short as it collapsed. He yanked his knife free of the melting meat and scrambled to his feet, everything sharp and bright with adrenaline.

Dean was still on the ground. He grabbed Sam as soon as he got close, using him to haul himself up with a groan. Sam looked at Dean's leg, the ragged, dark edges of denim and flesh. Something white gleamed deep inside the wound he'd thought was so shallow. Sam's stomach lurched, his left leg cramped hard, and acid-edged memories flooded him.

He wouldn't let himself drown. Not right now. He fought his way free to grab Dean back, tight, and grind out, "Jesus, Dandelion."

"Doesn't even hurt," Dean assured with a weak grin. "I'll heal it soon."

It dawned on Sam, studying Dean's face, how bad he looked, even accounting for the darkness and the moonlight. His vessel was pale, his black eyes flickering. And he looked...haunted. Shaken. The mini-pack he'd been dealing with, at least, was nowhere to be seen.

"Decided to try and take 'em out with, y'know, demon shit," Dean told Sam, attempting to airily wave a hand. "And it worked! So I got a new trick." He seemed proud. "But it also kinda wiped me out."

"Well...at least it worked, right?" Sam smiled, then began to count. Three killed by "demon shit." Two by angel blade. One by demon-killing knife. The rest had run, so there should only be more left. Which was perfect.

But then Sam looked at the stage. At the circle of goofer dust, and the wide swath he must've accidentally scattered when he got taken down. At Blue desperately trying to gather it back into place. And at the hellhound that charged up behind him, sailed over the broken boundary with no issue at all, and knocked Blue flat as it sank its teeth into the meat of his arm.

Blue screamed. He tried frantically to yank himself free and scrabbled uselessly at the goofer dust. Sam was already running when Dean shoved him towards the stage and yelled "Go! Go, go! Not gonna be able to hold it long!"

The hellhound rose into the air, jaws tearing away from Blue, doggy-paddling like it couldn't believe what was happening. The lift was jerkier than Dean's usual telekinesis, but he held it, and moved it away from Blue as Sam pounded up the stairs, throwing his coat off as an afterthought. He fell to his knees in front of the hellhound, looked up at its red eyes and its glass-like fangs and its warped face. And then he slit its throat.

Blood, scalding hot in the cold, gushed over him. It hit his face first, his hair, his shoulders and chest and back. His knife hand and his forearm and his thighs. He got it in his nose and mouth and it was putrid; he fell forward onto his hands and knees to spit and gag. It was already drying, tacky and cooling fast, when he got it together and crawled over to Blue. His tee and jeans clung to him, hair matted to his skull. His glasses were totally coated. He pulled them off and threw them aside.

Blue was just sitting there, legs folded, face calm, hand clutching his shredded bicep. Blood was pulsing weakly over his fingers.

"We did it!" he announced happily as Dean limped up onto the stage. He handed Sam his flashlight, and Sam turned it on, examining Blue's arm. He probably wasn't going to lose it, at least. But the wounds were deep, punctures and cuts, and there was a lot of blood. He was literally sitting in a puddle of it. So was Sam, the stuff dripping off him. They were different colors, though.

"Yep. We gotta get him to a hospital." He looked up at Dean. "I'd like to wrap it and get a tourniquet on it, too, but..." He lifted his hands. He'd flushed open wounds with rotgut whiskey before, but he didn't think he should get hellhound blood in them.

"On it." Dean limped off, but not before flashing Sam a warm, dazzling, giddy smile that said the same thing Blue had: _We did it._

You _did it._

It felt good.

"You sure I have to go to the hospital?" Blue asked casually. "I feel great."

"Yeah, you're in shock." Sam got up, shaky now the danger was gone, and retrieved his jacket. He hesitated a second before giving it to Blue. "Here. Ball that up and hold it on your arm. Keep pressure on it."

"Okay." Blue did as he was told, and then beamed up at Sam. "You really did it, huh? You saved me. I'm alive. I'm not going to Hell, and you did your...Quest..."

"Trial."

"Yeah, yeah. To kill all the demons. Or something. But not Dandelion, you're right, he's cool." Blue swallowed, tearing up. "You saved me. Thank you, thank you so much, I don't know - I - "

Sam smiled. "You're welcome." He knelt, in the blood and the dirt, and tried not to shiver. He was freezing his ass off. There was silence between him and Blue for a while, broken by Dean returning with the first aid kit.

"Hey. Can I smoke now?" Blue asked hopefully.

 _"No."_

* * *

They dropped Blue in the ambulance bay of the nearest hospital, a freshly-made hex bag in his pocket and a tourniquet high up on his arm. They stayed just long enough to make sure he made it. He walked in on his own, which was a good sign, and hadn't ever lost consciousness, thanking them over and over again and talking about how great he felt for the whole drive. Sam watched him all the way up to the doors.

"Don't worry, Samantha," Dean reassured him as they pulled away. "I'll buy you a new jacket, and it'll be even prettier than that one." Blue'd still been holding Sam's Carhartt. Not that Sam wanted it back, with all the blood on it.

Sam snorted and shook his head. He hadn't trusted Dean behind the wheel, so he was driving with gloved hands and two layers of towels under him. "Jerk."

Dean grinned. This was their new thing. "Bitch."

It was early in the morning when they got back to the room. Dean was already doing better, cracking jokes and walking without a limp. He was also in a crazy good mood, flying high. The muscle had filled back in on his leg and freckled, hairy skin was slowly covering it like creeping mold. It made Sam feel a little sick. But he couldn't stop watching.

"So, you ready?" Dean asked.

"Huh?" Sam tore his eyes away from Dean's leg.

"You ready to finish the Trial?" Dean elaborated. "Not quite over yet. Gotta recite the incantation, get started for real. Then you probably oughta take a shower." He looked Sam up and down. "After that, we'll get outta here. Just in case."

Sam took a deep breath, blew it out. "Okay. All right. I'm ready."

Dean nodded. "Repeat after me, then. It's Enochian. Ka...na...om dar."

Sam quietly recited the chant, the gravity of the situation, weighing down on every inch of him. There was maybe half a second where nothing happened, long enough for Sam to wonder if Dean had maybe remembered the words wrong. Then the pain hit him.

It floored him, every muscle in his body tight and aching. His bones felt hot inside him, searing the flesh around them, and his pulse was loud and agonizing in his ears. He gasped, then cried out. He did his best to keep it quiet but it _hurt_ , like the fever he'd had when his leg was so infected he was running the risk of septic shock. Especially his right arm. When he looked at it, he could see every vein in it, both bones, because silver-white light filled it. It even shone through the hellhound blood, rolling and pulsing like an ocean.

Dean had fallen to his knees when Sam had, stroking his blood-clotted hair and murmuring soothingly to him. His eyes were shockingly, violently green when Sam looked at him, lit up by the glow off Sam's arm.

All at once, it faded. It'd only lasted a few seconds. Sam felt nothing but tired, as tired as he should after staying up all night stabbing hellhounds. Staring at Dean, he caught his breath.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me it was gonna _hurt_?" Sam demanded.

"'Cause you would've gotten all worried like you do," Dean replied reasonably. "Everything worth doing's gonna suck. But it wasn't even that bad, was it?"

"No," Sam admitted. Just like a really bad fever, and it hadn't lasted all that long. "So I..." He looked at his arm, no longer glowing. "I'm doing it? I started?"

"Sure did. You and me, baby." Dean kissed Sam's temple, then grimaced and spat directly onto the filthy carpet. "Okay, seriously, you gotta shower this crap off."

"Oh, god. Yeah." Sam let Dean help him to his feet, then glanced longingly at the bed, made with worn sheets and saggy in the middle. "Hey, you sure we gotta leave tonight? I don't wanna - " He stopped talking, barely even realized it. Something was wrong. Something had shifted in his brain, a fault line releasing, making everything strange and unsettling. He swallowed, and his teeth tingled.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice was muffled. "Hey." He touched Sam, but there were so many layers between them. "You okay? What...what the hell's this feeling I'm gettin' off you?"

"I don't...feel - " It was then that Sam's cerebrospinal fluid caught fire.

Of course it didn't really, and he'd understand that later, but right now, he was in way too much pain to think logically. Everything above his neck was a flat sheet of pale agony. He clutched at a face he couldn't believe wasn't shattered, a skull he couldn't believe wasn't gaping open, squeezed, clawed. He bruised and bled but it didn't make any difference. His brain was burning. His thoughts were broken razor blades.

Sam knew he'd fallen back to the floor, and that Dean was next to him, touching him, shaking him, yelling. He couldn't understand him and nothing mattered but how bad it felt. It built and built and then Sam just...shattered.

The pieces came back together. The way they did was weird and wrong, all surreal angles and sickening light and shivering around the edges. It took him too long to figure out what was going on. Bobby Singer, looking so much older than the last time he'd seen him, in a wheelchair but still wearing his trademark mesh-backed ballcap. And Vaughn, hair cropped short, blue eyes hard. They were sitting at a scarred table in a light-flooded kitchen. Bobby was showing Vaughn how to load a gun.

It shattered again, reformed. New scene. A man, maybe a decade older than Sam, with a serious, tired face and messy black hair. He was wearing a trench coat and a backwards tie, and his eyes were bluer than Vaughn's. Sam thought it might be raining. Lightning flashed, throwing the guy's shadow huge on the wall behind him, and he had wings.

Another shatter. And there was Sam himself, looking like he'd just gone ten rounds and lost. His hair was a little longer, in addition to all the bruises and blood. It was dark, high ceiling, big windows. Maybe a church? And Dean was roughly wrestling Sam to the ground, eyes black and teeth bared in a grimace.

And then Sam was back in his body. Back in the room. He was limp on the floor, his mouth tasting like he'd thrown up, and his face felt like he'd been crying, wet and sore. Dean was yelling at the top of his lungs. And the pain was finally, finally gone

Sam only got to enjoy it for a second or two, though. Then he passed out.


	13. Chapter 13

_Ash -_

 _Have to take Jo school shopping in Cheyenne so you & Sam are on your own. Sorry in advance._

 _He should sleep most of the day but MAKE SURE he takes his pills. ALL his pills, including the pain ones. If he says he doesn't need them he's lying. Don't feel bad about poking his leg to make him admit it._

 _He can dress his own wound. He can go out in his wheelchair but you HAVE to go with him. If he really wants to, he can study for his GED. DO NOT let him walk, help out at the Roadhouse, or guilt you into telling him about any cases that need working. Ignore his whining._

 _Paperclipped $50 for your trouble. Good luck._

 _Ellen_

 _\- Note from Ellen Harvelle to Ashton "Ash" Harvelle, c. 2001_

* * *

Sam woke up in the most comfortable bed he'd been in for the better part of a year.

There was a second where he was dead convinced he was back at his cabin, in the bed he'd carefully outfitted for his own comfort. He wasn't out of it enough to believe it for long, or to miss the differences between his bed and this one, but it was close. Firm, supple spring mattress. Sheets clean and soft against his skin. Comforter heavy on top of him.

How awesome the bed felt really made how terrible Sam himself was feeling stand out. He'd just woken up and could already tell that he was in crappy shape. He had no idea how long he'd slept, but he was still tired, and he felt heavy and weak to the point where even thinking about moving was tough. He had the aches in his legs and back and the shivering sensitivity in his skin that he'd learned meant fever, after the many, many fevers he'd had. His throat was sore and his mouth was dry.

There was also a headache nestled deep in his sinuses, but after what'd hit him when he completed the First Trial, he barely noticed that.

Sam stayed put, but pried his eyes open. His lids were gummed together and his vision was blurry; both of those things cleared up pretty quickly.

He was in a room with a low ceiling and a couple of white-shuttered windows. Weak gray light filtered through the wooden slats. A blue strip ran around the bottom of the room, right above the floor's dark boards. A rope net hung on one wall, there were a few pieces of driftwood mounted on another, and there was a big jar full of sea glass on the nightstand Sam was facing.

Rain was drumming steady on the roof, an occasional gust throwing it against the windows like a shower of pennies. Sam wasn't breathing very easily through his nose, but the sharp smell of the ocean made its way in with no issue.

He was curled on his side, and rolled himself over onto his back with a dry groan. Chills flashed up and down his body as he slowly forced himself to sit up. His head spun, and he closed his eyes to get a hold of who and where he was again, and when he opened them, Dean was in the room. Just having him there centered Sam in a way he hadn't known he needed.

"Hey." Dean came to sit on the edge of the bed, getting the lamp on the nightstand. Its shade, a bunch of layered clam shells, glowed with the colors of a sunset. "You're up." He touched Sam's hair, gently. It was messy, all the near-bald spots probably exposed. The feel of Dean's hand was a very simple pleasure. "How you feelin'?"

When Dean smiled, it was a little thin.

"Uhh," Sam started, then coughed to try and shake loose whatever was muffling his voice. "Like I got run over by a bus."

"Yeah, you look like it." Dean smirked with one side of his mouth, running his fingertips over Sam's scalp.

"Where are we?" Sam asked when Dean didn't say anything else.

"Surfside Beach, Texas." Dean shifted his weight more fully onto the bed. The mattress didn't even creak. "On the Gulf. In a 'honeymoon cottage.'" He grinned. "It's the off season, so it was super cheap to rent, but don't you ever say I never take you anywhere nice."

Sam was able to muster a small smile, leaning into Dean's touch. There was silence for a minute, nothing but the sound of the rain and Dean's calluses rasping over Sam's greasy hair. Then, cautious, Dean asked, "D'you remember what happened?"

"Yeah," Sam replied. "I passed out. Right after I finished the Trial."

Dean nodded. Sam went on.

"I woke up...I guess a few minutes later. Didn't think to look at a clock or anything. I was _super_ out of it, and you were freaking out. You teleported me outta my clothes and put me in the shower for a couple minutes to get the hellhound blood off." It was fuzzy, but Sam remembered kicking up as much of a fuss as he'd been able to at the time because he thought Dean wanted to have sex and he wasn't in the mood. "Then...there was a hospital, right?" He squinted at Dean. "I know I needed to go. That was, easy, the most pain I've ever been in my whole life, including my leg, and I lost consciousness." He swallowed. "But they probably had security footage of us dropping off - "

"I didn't go to the one we dumped Wannabe Presley at," Dean interrupted. "I took you to an ER in the next town. Drove like a bat outta hell to get there, too. Literally. Good thing there weren't any cops around; if one'd tried to pull me over right then, probably would've killed him." Dean's voice was light. His face wasn't. "You were doing better by then. You remember what the doctor said?"

"That it sounded like a migraine." That doctor'd been harried and tired, and not at all impressed by the attitude Dean was sporting. "Or a cluster headache. And that it also looked like I had the flu, which makes sense, because I never got a shot."

"We had better things to do," Dean said dismissively. "But..." He eyed Sam, looking guilty. "I'll make sure you get one next year. Even if this ain't the flu."

"Well, you demanded half a dozen tests - none of which we paid for, I'd guess - and I don't remember them finding anything wrong with me besides that," Sam pointed out. There was a tickle high in his chest, right below his throat.

"Told me your giant nerd brain looked funny on the MRI."

"They also told you that was probably machine error. I was there, Dean." Sam swallowed, painful and thick. "I was there when you told 'em we were brothers, too." He made an attempt at a playful smirk. "Which, if that's a kink of yours, I mean, good for you, but no thanks."

Dean snorted. "I said that so they'd let me stay with you. Get your mind outta the gutter." He reached behind Sam to pile up the pillows, all firm and rounded. Sam let him nudge him into leaning back against them once he was done. "What happened after they gave you a clean bill of health, pretty much?"

"Well, we left, and - " The tickle in Sam's chest became an itch, and he coughed to scratch it. All that really did was make it worse. And make him very, very aware of all the heavy mucus that he seemed to be full of right now. Before he knew it, Sam was in the middle of a full-blown coughing fit, hacking wetly.

Dean's weight disappeared from the bed. He returned a second later with a glass of water, which Sam gratefully chugged.

"Thanks," he rasped after taking a second to catch his breath.

"Don't mention it." Dean sat down again as Sam returned to leaning against the pillows. Coughing so much had left him tired and lightheaded. "We left, yeah. I stuck you in the back seat and you conked out right away."

"You kept waking me up." Sam's voice was still rough.

"Can you blame me? I only did it for the first hour, anyway." Dean stared at nothing, eyes aimed in the direction of the shell lamp. "You slept for thirteen hours after that. Didn't wake up when I carried you in here, or when I took your pants and shoes off to put you in bed. Would've been worried if you hadn't kept tryin' to cuddle with me in your sleep." Dean looked wryly at Sam. "Also, I know I carry you a lot, but you're freakin' _heavy_ , man."

"Thirteen hours?" Sam repeated, shocked. "I'm. So sorry, Dean...did you try and wake me up?"

"Nah." Dean shook his head. "You were sleeping in the car all last week, pretty much, and then you were up the whole night doing the Trial and saving Blue's bacon, and they said you were sick at the hospital, so I figured you needed it." He made a show of examining Sam's face and feeling his forehead. "Looks like you could use a couple more hours, actually."

"Pretty sure I've had enough." Thirteen hours. Sam hadn't slept that long since he'd been battling an infection in his leg.

Dean picked up on his embarrassment, of course. "Look, you really don't have to feel bad, okay? I was fine. And it ain't surprising at all, if you think about how much you had going on. The First Trial was a little rough on me, too." He paused, then admitted, "Not this rough. But you were probably already getting sick, so."

"I'm not going back to sleep," Sam stated, shaking his head until he got dizzy and had to close his eyes. Of course he was still tired. But that was nothing new for him, and it wasn't even unique to hunters. It was just part of being a person.

"Yeah, okay," Dean agreed. "Probably gotta get some food and fluids in you, anyway." Sam opened his eyes again to see Dean staring intently at him. "But you _are_ gonna rest."

"All right." Sam shrugged, then winced. He wasn't sure which pains were flu aches and which were pulled muscles from sleeping folded up in the back seat of the car. "I'll take a day or two off. If you wanna grab me my laptop, I could go ahead and start looking at - "

"No," Dean interrupted firmly. His expression said not only had he been expecting this fight, but he'd prepared for it. Sam felt his head move a little in confusion. "I mean, yeah, not a bad idea for you to get some work done while we're here, but not today. You oughta just take it easy today. And I'm not talking about staying here for one or two days. Unless something major happens, we're planted 'til you're all better. No fever, no coughing, no nothing. And I don't care how long it takes."

Sucking quietly at the inside of one cheek, Sam regarded Dean, saw the stony resolution in the look on his face. "Okay. I agree. But - " He turned his palms up on the pale-blue duvet, exasperated. "Can we afford that much of a break? We've started the Trials. How long 'til the other demons figure it out and start coming after us for real? We need to keep moving. We need to get going on the Second Trial, and even if we can't, we should at least be hunting." He coughed, but only let himself do it once. "I can do it, if I need to. It's just the flu. I've been sick before."

"Yeah, but that's just it: you don't need to." Dean's hand landed on one of Sam's, and squeezed. "We got plenty of time and we're safe here. What's most important right now is you building yourself back up for whatever comes next, whether that's the Second Trial or another hunt. So you don't wind up _dying_." There was something harsh in Dean's voice on that last word. "You gotta remember the doctor telling you to just take a load off."

"Yeah," Sam said quietly. He was frustrated, in the pettiest, most useless way, because he knew Dean was right and he'd already given in.

"Look, be pissed at me if you gotta," Dean went on. "Do it for me if you don't think you need the shore leave, 'cause I fought hellhounds and then I thought I was watching you have an aneurysm, and I know I'm a big, bad demon Knight, but I could still use a few days where I don't gotta do anything but take care of you and all your basic human crap."

The harshness was back in his voice, and he held Sam's hand tight the entire time he was talking, like he was worried he'd disappear into the bed if he didn't hang onto him. Sam watched him, almost as shocked as he'd been when he told him he'd slept for thirteen hours.

"Look, Sammy." Dean's voice leveled out and his hand loosened. "I don't have a whole lotta feelings, and my stomach's not even running, but..." His boots _clunk_ ed loud on the floor as he kicked them off, then he climbed over Sam, letting go of his hand and flopping onto the mattress with a sigh. Sam bounced and held in a cough. "Swear to god you're gonna give me an ulcer, kid."

Sam gingerly rolled onto his side to face Dean, hand to hand, knee to knee, brow to brow, twins in the womb of the big, fluffy bed. Green eyes, highlighted gold in one thin bar each by the lamp at Sam's back, filled his whole vision.

"You convinced me," he assured Dean. "It'll be like a vacation. I'll rest up, and you can take a break from saving my ass every five minutes." A moment later, he added, "And watching me have aneurysms."

 _"Ooh."_ Dean's moan was almost sexual. "Yes, please." His eyelids dropped, lashes the color of old honey catching the lamplight now, and he touched Sam's hair. He sure seemed to like it a lot, for having destroyed it. His fingers traveled over the swell of Sam's skull, down into the aching, pulsing hollow just below his temple, up onto the ridge of his eye socket, the point of his cheekbone, the slice of his nose. Just that gentle touch was enough to have Sam's eyes watering and his sinuses stirring. He blinked rapidly as Dean moved down to his mole and murmured, "Speaking of that aneurysm." A pause. "What was it like?"

"Well, it fucking _hurt_." Sam didn't really want to think about it, but he did anyway. Memories bubbled up like mud churned by the treads of a tank, just as dirty and unpleasant. Bobby and Vaughn. An angel. Dean hurting him.

Sam swallowed his sneeze and decided not to tell Dean. They'd probably just been hallucinations. Dean would never hurt him. And Bobby and Vaughn...well.

"Yeah, I got that. What with all the screaming." Dean traced the shape of Sam's mouth. "That all, though? Just the hurt?"

"Why?"

"Just felt something weird coming off you during it."

Sam frowned under Dean's fingers. "What?"

"Well..." Dean started, then sighed through his nose. "Never mind. It was probably nothing." He cupped Sam's jaw, his calluses catching on his stubble. "Anyway. Now's probably a bad time to talk about you _not_ doing the Second Trial, right?"

Sam raised his eyebrows and smirked, taking it as a joke. Dean was just smiling back when the sneeze he'd thought he'd gotten rid of returned with a vengeance. There was no holding it back this time; he accidentally splattered Dean with what felt like about a cup of snot and spit. Dean gasped with horror, wordless, and then rolled over and scrambled off the bed so fast the mattress bucked in the frame.

"Oh my god, you're disgusting," he mumbled as he bolted into the bathroom.

"You're the one who wanted to deal with all my 'basic human crap.'" Sam sniffed and wiped gingerly at the wet mess under his nose. "Could you grab me a tissue?"

* * *

Once they were both clean of Sam's mucus (a worrying shade of green), Dean helped him out of bed and down the stairs. Upstairs was the bedroom and bathroom, and downstairs was a small kitchen, living room, and what looked like a mudroom or something. The living room had a huge picture window. Dean wrapped Sam up in a heavy blanket and sat him in a squashy armchair in front of it, opening the shutters so he could see the rain and the clouds and the wet beach sloping down to the gray ocean.

"You gonna cook for me?" Sam asked Dean throatily as he headed into the kitchen.

"Yep." Dean grinned at him. "I make a mean chicken noodle soup." His voice got a little more careful. "It's my dad's recipe. It'll knock your socks off, guaranteed."

"Soup sounds good." Sam glanced around. More shells, nets, glass, driftwood. There was a tiny end table with a big, solid telephone on it, old-fashioned and cream-colored, exactly like the one he'd used to have at his cabin. That reminded him of something. He did some quick calculations, then asked Dean, "Hey. Is it Monday?"

"Yep." Dean was rooting around in the fridge, laying packages of chicken and bags of vegetables out on the counter. "Why?"

"I gotta call Ellen. Or Garth, or somebody." Sam closed his eyes and pulled down into the blanket. "Could you get me my phone?"

"I guess." Dean heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Just so you know, though, I wouldn't even let you do this if you weren't calling your mom."

He brought Sam his cell phone, then went back to the kitchen. Sam decided to call Ellen. She was most likely to talk to everyone else.

"Harvelle," Ellen stated coldly when she picked up. Sam was surprised until he remembered he had a new phone; she didn't know who he was.

"Uh, hey, Ellen." Sam coughed. "It's Sam. Calling. Y'know, like I said I would."

"Well," Ellen said approvingly, "color me shocked." Sam winced, and Ellen paused. "But, god, Sam, you sound awful."

"Yeah, I've got the flu." Sam glanced towards Dean. "Dean's making me...chicken noodle soup."

There was a silence Sam couldn't help hearing as _So he's still around, is he?_ Then Ellen flatly stated, "He cooks."

"He's really good at it, actually." Sam read a self-satisfied smirk in the set of Dean's shoulders.

"Good for him." Sam heard Ellen lick her lips. "I know he's a demon and all, but I've gotta say, I feel bad for him. You sick, him taking care of you all on his lonesome. No backup."

"I'm behaving!" Sam protested. "We barely fought about us staying here until I'm better. D'you wanna talk to him? About how good I'm being?"

"Not if he's busy with your soup," Ellen replied innocently. Voice more serious, she asked Sam, "You doin' okay, though? For real?"

"Of course. I'm just sick. It's not the first time."

"Heard Charlie called you."

"Yeah, it was great to hear from her." The microwave beeped, and Dean appeared at Sam's elbow with a steaming mug. Sam took it with a mumbled thanks, then frowned down at the bag floating in the pale amber water. He took the phone away from his mouth. "Do we not have coffee?"

"This is better for you right now. I put honey and lemon juice in it." Dean raised his brows and hooded his eyes. "Don't try to tell me you ain't a tea guy. Salads, meditation...you're into all that shit."

Sam rolled his eyes and sipped the tea. It didn't taste like anything, but he _was_ sick. He returned to the conversation with Ellen.

"Sorry," he said. "Anyway, I had to ditch my old phone. This is my new number."

"Good to know." Ellen took it in stride. "So how're your, ah, Trials going? Or are you guys still just hunting, building up to it?"

"No. I started." Excitement flooded Sam in a prickly rush. He couldn't believe he hadn't told her right away. "I finished the first one. I killed a hellhound. We killed a _lot_ of hellhounds and saved a guy, I bathed in their blood, Dean gave me the incantation. My arm glowed." Better not to mention the pain, or the headache he'd gotten after.

"Wow!" Ellen sounded impressed. "That is...you're really doing it." There was a long pause. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter, had thickened slightly. "You're gonna change the world. You're gonna make things better."

"I said I would," Sam pointed out.

"Yeah, you were always pretty good about keepin' your word when it came to stuff like that. Not so much calling." Sam snorted which, unfortunately, made an ungodly amount of snot pop out of his nose. Dean brought a box of tissues over to him, mouthing _Gross_ and scowling. He also affectionately touched the back of Sam's neck before returning to the kitchen. "So Dean's helping you? He's looking out for you?"

"He dragged me to an ER and bullied 'em into running ten thousand dollars' worth of tests on me just so they could tell us I need fluids and bedrest." Sam briefly closed his aching eyes. "You tell me."

Ellen chuckled. "You're closing the Gates of Hell and he's got you following doctor's orders. Better hope you don't use up the world supply of miracles between you two."

"How're you guys?" Sam changed the subject.

"Welp, Ash is rebuilding his setup," Ellen began. "We're looking for a place of our own. Meantime, I'm tending bar. Place is nice. Homey. Reminds me of..." She choked up, trailed off. Sam felt a stab of guilt and murmured his sympathies. "Well. You know. Owner's on the up and up, lots of old friends stopping by. I might start selling your books here, but - "

"Yeah. Don't want it getting burned down, too," Sam finished. "No. Don't put yourselves at risk. Don't even mention you've been talking to me." He sipped from the tea again. "How 'bout Jo?"

Ellen heaved a sigh so deep it sounded like she'd dragged it up out of her hipbones. "Jo...is working a restless spirit case in Omaha."

"Oh." Sam winced. "No."

"Yeah."

"Anything I can do to help?" Sam asked, acutely aware of his fever and aches.

"Doubt it." Ellen sighed again. "Garth's with her, so. Not like she's alone, at least."

Sam bit back another "Oh, no." Garth was a good...well, not a good hunter, exactly. But he hadn't died or lost any limbs yet, and he did have a lot of experience, so Jo was better off with him than alone.

"He's done comin' around here when they get back, though." Ellen's voice was steely. "And _she's_ grounded. Gonna nip this thing in the bud before it gets off the ground."

Sam coughed. He didn't feel well enough to argue about this, and once again, he wasn't there, wasn't involved. As Dean kept reminding him, though, this was still his family. He found himself asking, "You really think _Garth_ talked _Jo_ into working a case?"

"I think she couldn't've done it without him," Ellen replied. Sam disagreed, but didn't say so.

"Ellen, she's twenty-three."

"That mean she ain't my daughter anymore?" Ellen asked bluntly. She continued before Sam could answer. "Sam Winchester, I'm not stopping you from running with a demon or hunting or closing the Gates of Hell. And Dean sounds like a perfect gentleman and shutting down Hell's the best thing anybody's ever done for any of us, but _don't_ tell me how to mother Jo."

"Okay." Sam could feel Dean, chopping veggies in the kitchen, staring at him, picking up on his emotions. He heard Ellen sigh yet again.

"I'm sorry, Sam. It's just been real tough, between you and her. At least Ash barely leaves his room."

"Yeah, of course. I'm sorry, too."

"I appreciate you calling," Ellen told Sam seriously. "I hope you feel better soon. And I'm proud of you, doing what you're doing. So proud. We all are. And you can bet your dad would be, too."

"Thanks, Ellen," Sam said quietly. "I'll...talk to you again soon. Say hi to Ash for me, and good luck with Jo."

"Yeah, I'm gonna need it." Ellen paused. "Tell Dean thanks from me. For actually keeping your stubborn ass in one place and making you get over whatever's wrong with you."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Uh huh. 'Bye, Ellen." He hung up after she'd said goodbye, then sank deep into the chair and the blanket, dropping his phone in his lap.

"Drama?" Dean called.

"Jo's hunting," Sam responded. "With Garth. Ellen hates it, I don't blame her, but Jo's a grown woman, so...the usual."

"Garth's the weird little dude with the big nose, right?"

"Yep. Got a crush on Jo, too, apparently." Sam massaged his forehead and grimaced. "Whiiiich I can't see ending well for him, especially now he's on Ellen's bad side."

"Wow." Dean cleared his throat. "I am _so_ glad I'm not human."

"Ellen said she was proud of me, though." Sam paused. "And that my dad would've been, too."

"I know I am." Dean was smiling when Sam looked at him. "That's why I'm making you this kickass chicken noodle soup."

"She's also real happy you're taking care of me."

"'Bout time somebody appreciated my talents."

The soup took forever. Sam dozed off again while it was simmering, even though he'd said he wouldn't. It was definitely worth the wait when Dean woke him up and handed him a bowl, hot and rich and salty, swimming with carrots and celery. It also cleared Sam's sinuses right out, because "kickass" apparently meant "full of every spice the local grocery store carries."

"Good?" Dean asked, taking Sam's empty bowl. He hadn't even thought he was hungry, but he'd eaten the whole thing. Sam, gasping and blowing his nose for the fifty billionth time, nodded. "Awesome. I'm gonna cook for you the whole time we're here. I'm going all-out." He made Sam finish his tea, then said, "Okay, let's take a bath. I can still smell the hellhound on you."

Dean literally meant "let's." The upstairs bathroom was mostly taken up by a clawfoot tub with a high back, big enough for both of them. Dean helped Sam out of the tee and boxers he'd yanked onto him before rushing him to the hospital as water thundered into the bathtub. Rain pattered on the roof and the windows were steamed pale and cloudy.

It felt like Sam's cabin. It felt like home.

"You sure I didn't die?" he mumbled to Dean. "Is this Heaven?"

Dean looked at him, then felt his forehead. "I'm gonna have you take a couple aspirin, okay?" he said. "And...you'd be super sick in your Heaven? Seriously?"

"Oh. Right."

After the aspirin, in bathwater hot enough to banish Sam's fever chills, Dean sat behind him and washed every inch. He wiped away all the lingering smears of black blood, shampooed his hair, even shaved the stubble that'd covered Sam's jaw and throat since Saturday morning.

Dean was especially thorough when he got down between Sam's legs. He fondled his dick, rolled his balls under his thumb. Sam was already hardening when Dean went to wash his hole and a couple fingers popped in, going straight for the fever-sensitive swell of his prostate.

Sam gasped, back arching. Dean's full length was resting hard and heavy against his spine.

"Don't want it?" Dean's voice was a low rumble, but still gentle.

"I - right now? You sure?" Sam's hips were trembling with the effort of not grinding down onto the pads of Dean's fingers. He was feeling better, with the soup and the bath and especially the aspirin, but... "I'm gross. I'm super gross."

"Mm, yeah, I know. You're disgusting." Dean kissed the curve of Sam's ear at the same moment Sam happened to sniff a lot of snot deeper into his nose. "Only your upper half, though. Your lower half's fine. And it's all I'm interested in."

Sam was reluctant right up until Dean flicked his fingers. "Okay, fine. If you really wanna."

Dean finished cleaning him up, then helped him out of the tub. Once they were dry, both of them hard enough to cut diamonds, Sam laid down on the bed, pelvis on the foot. Dean knelt there and grabbed his legs, spreading them wide. He grunted approvingly.

"Lovin' this tight little runner's ass you got goin' on back here," he growled. "And these _thighs_." He squeezed a double handful of hard muscle and Sam sucked in a breath.

"Gotta give you something nice to look at, don't I?" Sam asked breathlessly. "Glad you finally noticed."

"Ooh, believe me, I noticed." Dean's breath was cool on Sam's bath-hot cock. "Tell me what you want me to do."

"Uh...suck my dick?" Sam didn't mean for it to come out as a question. Thankfully, Dean took it as an order. Sam gasped as he tongued his slit, dredging up precome he hadn't even known he'd been leaking and spreading it over his head. When Dean went to take him into his mouth, Sam knew he was going to come in about ten seconds doing this, and even though he was sick, he didn't want to. "W-wait. Rim me."

Dean didn't question it, diving down to the pucker of Sam's entrance. He seemed to be aware of how hypersensitive Sam was, because he was gentler with his tongue and his lips than he normally would've been. Sam's muscles melted almost instantly at the familiar touch of Dean's full mouth, and he worked him even looser, leaning into him with his whole face. His nose nudged Sam's sac with the rhythm of his jaw movements, and his tongue fluttered over Sam's inner walls. Sam squeezed the heavy comforter under him with both hands to keep from jerking himself off. His eyes closed as he panted and shuddered, legs folding in automatically around Dean's head. His hair was bristly-soft against the backs of Sam's thighs.

Sam's hips jerked when he felt something against his prostate. It wasn't a finger, and it definitely wasn't Dean's tongue, which meant it had to be a psychic touch. There was something unbelievably hot about that.

"Fuck me," Sam gasped. He was pretty sure he was loose enough by now. Then he hastily tacked on, "If you wanna."

Dean snorted after pulling back and standing up. Sam let his legs fall down around his waist. "This is about you, dumbass. You're the one who's sick."

"Then I want you to fuck me." Sam sniffed wetly without meaning to. "And come inside."

"I can do that." Dean entered Sam easily, grabbing his legs and moving them up to his own shoulders. "Then you gotta blow your nose."

Dean made love to Sam, slow, each stroke smooth and steady. He built up an orgasm for him, prostate only, then pushed him over the edge. Sam moaned and shook, head driving back into the mattress, pleasure waterfalling through him. When it was over, he was exhausted and bone-deep satisfied, and Dean had spilled his seed inside him.

"I needed that," Sam rasped. The moaning hadn't done his sore throat any favors. "You were right."

"Usually am."

Sam cleaned himself up with the washcloth Dean brought him, pulled on the tee and sweats he dug out of his backpack, and then fell into bed, warm and fulfilled and heavy. Dean crawled in behind him, wearing boxers and a flannel Sam knew was his. He groaned with pleasure, half-asleep, when Dean draped an arm over him and pulled him back against his chest.

"Thanks," Sam mumbled. "You're a really good boyfriend, Dandelion. I really love you."

"Well, you ain't that complicated," Dean replied softly. "Food, sex, and sleep."

"I'm a _human_." Sam yawned. "Listen, we...we can stay here 'til my fever breaks, but then we gotta go. Another hunt. Second Trial." He burrowed into his pillow. "We gotta get moving."


	14. Chapter 14

_You're going to run into a lot of psychics over the course of your career, chances are. At a generous estimate, over half the population has latent psychic abilities, although most people's are so weak they never even notice. Psychics are tricky. The aren't technically monsters, but if they can't control their powers or are using them to hurt people, you'll need to take care of them. We'll go deeper into that later on._

 _Psychic powers range from the common, like sensitivity to ghosts and telekinesis, to the extremely rare, like manifestation (altering reality itself) and clairvoyance (seeing the future)._

 _I have a full section on clairvoyance starting on page 63, but I want to emphasize something here: most clairvoyants have basically no control over their visions, and they never see the big picture. All they get is brief flashes of a_ possible _future, the future as it's going to happen if nothing changes from that second on. It's a fact that nothing is concretely predetermined, even if we do have a pretty good idea some sort of God exists out there._

 _This means you can change the future a clairvoyant sees. It also means you don't know what kind of effect doing that will have. Time isn't a straight line, it's more like a tree. And there are a lot of branches you don't want to end up on._

 _-_ Psychics, _Sam Winchester_

* * *

The beach house had a shower. It was in the mudroom area Sam'd spotted on the first day, right by the door, probably so you could wash off sand and salt before coming into the house. It was kind of industrial-looking, but Sam didn't mind. Baths were nice. There was something about a shower they just couldn't replicate, though.

It was the morning of their third day here, as Sam stepped naked under the scalding-hot stream, and he was feeling worlds better. Dean's home cooking, more sleep than he'd probably needed, and at least one orgasm a day had really made a difference. His sinuses were clear and his fever had broken, and when he'd woken right before sunrise, he'd actually felt well-rested.

He'd been able to get some work done, finally, using his laptop for something besides catching Dean up on movies he'd never seen while Sam himself dozed, or just enjoyed his company. He'd cleaned out his inbox, sorting the real messages from the hate mail, and done some much-needed maintenance on his website. He'd found the e-mails from Ash and Blue, and felt guilty, but thankfully, there didn't seem to be anybody else who urgently needed to get into contact with him.

Sam had even taken a look at a few news outlets out West and earmarked a handful of possible cases. He still wasn't sure if he wanted to go straight ahead into the Second Trial or do another hunt or two first. Maybe it'd be better to ease back into things, after how tough the First Trial and what came after it had been. Give Dean a break from worrying he was going to die.

"You got room for one more in there?"

Speak of the devil. Literally. As soon as Sam called "Yeah," Dean pulled aside the curtain (heavy canvas, striped blue and white) and stepped into the roomy cubicle. Of course he was already naked. He turned on the other of the two heads and smiled at Sam through the steam.

"Well, _you_ look about a million times better," he announced, and Sam chuckled.

"I feel about a million times better," he agreed. "Might even go for a run later." He hadn't been able to recently. First he'd been trapped in the car, driving from Oregon to Texas, then he'd been busy with the Trial, and then he'd been sick and it'd been raining. It'd cleared up yesterday, though. He was looking forward to getting back in the swing of things.

"Just so long as you don't overdo it," Dean warned.

"Don't worry." Sam moved in closer to him in order to grab his shampoo off the floor, intentionally brushing up against him. "I'll be fine."

Dean put a hand on Sam's waist. Straightening up, Sam leaned in until their mouths met, tasting sulfur and tap water on his lips. The hot spray of the shower pounded against both their backs.

When they broke, Dean's voice had dropped and roughened. "After the past couple days, haven't you had enough of me?"

"Never." Sam kissed him again. His dick, already beginning to swell, brushed against the muscle of Dean's thigh.

"Y'know, I've _never_ had as much shower sex with anybody as I've had with you," Dean commented. "Used to kinda hate it when I was human. Thought it was too complicated."

"Oh, are we gonna have shower sex?" Sam stepped back, half-hard, grinning as Dean's hand slipped off him. "You sure?"

He popped the cap on his shampoo bottle, but it snapped closed immediately. Then it slipped out of his hand and settled back on the floor, out of the way. Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean, who shrugged, arms folded across his chest.

"What's the point in washing your hair before you go for a run?" he asked reasonably. "Or anything. Not even sure why you're showering." Another bottle, slimmer, floated into Sam's hand. "There you go. Try that one instead."

Sam glanced down to see their lube, then smirked, opening it and pouring some out into his hand. Dean's eyes were locked on him, bright and eager, as he worked himself out to his full length and slicked it up. They were less than a foot apart under the water.

"'M really glad you're feeling so good." It was just a husky rumble from Dean, who was fully erect by the time Sam finished.

"Lemme show you..." He put the lube down, stepped forward, crowded Dean backwards. Dean was grinning. "...how good I'm feeling."

"Ooh, I love it when you take charge," Dean purred. Then Sam grabbed him by his thighs, picking him up and shoving his back against the wall, and Dean made a happy, excited little hiccuping noise. It was totally out of place, but Sam managed to keep from commenting on it.

Honestly, he was just pleased he could do this. Dean was at least one-sixty, and not only had he picked him up, it hadn't even been that hard. Sam knew he'd put on some serious muscle since leaving his cabin. This was proof.

"I'm ready and waitin' for ya." Dean fluttered his long eyelashes seductively inches from Sam's face, and draped his arms over Sam's shoulders. "Come right on in."

One of the perks of Dean being a demon possessing a human vessel was that he had total control over his body. There was no need for anything but minimal prep; when Sam prodded Dean's entrance with his slick head, he was already loose and eager, fluttering in anticipation.

Sam slipped into him with a grunt. Dean gasped and hooked his knees over Sam's hips, squeezing his ass with his calves. He was familiar to Sam, after all the times he'd been inside him, and he knew how to angle his hips to hit Dean's prostate from the front. He squeezed Dean's thighs, probably pressing fingerprint bruises into the pale skin, and the nails of one of Dean's hands dug into Sam's back. The other hand gripped his head, his shortened hair, so hard his scalp stung.

Sam felt powerful, strong. He'd been training and hunting for eight months, he'd just come out of an illness. He'd started the Trials of God. He would've been afraid to fuck anybody human into this tiled wall as hard as he could, afraid of ripping or crushing or otherwise hurting. He knew Dean could take it, though. So Sam aimed to wear himself out in him. It was almost as good as running.

They got the rough, raw sex Sam suspected they'd both been craving for a while now, moaning and grunting together. A few minutes in, Sam heard Dean's eyes change, and then come exploded between their chests and stomachs a second later.

As easy as Dean had been to pick up at first, Sam's arms and back were starting to get tired, especially with all the thrusting. Once Dean'd come, he moved to put him down, elbows creaking. He figured he'd finish himself off. Dean clung to him with his arms and legs both, though.

"Oh, no you don't," he growled. "I know you're close. You throw me around like this and put me in my place, you're sure as shit gonna come in my ass, bookworm boy."

"Your dirty talk's been better," Sam panted, adjusting his grip on Dean's thighs.

"Shut up."

Sam started moving again, immediately getting back the momentum he'd lost when Dean came. Dean, for his part, clenched where his orgasm had loosened him. He was tight around Sam, hot, ridged with rings of muscle. It wasn't long before he was on the edge and then, very quickly, tipping over.

Sam was barely into his orgasm when the pain hit.

It was like someone had hit him with a machete dipped in nitrogen, cleaving his skull down the center, and Sam instinctively reeled back. Of course that didn't do any good. He could tell, by the overwhelming, unparalleled pain and the way his reality seemed to be cracking into pieces, that this headache was the same as the one he'd gotten right after finishing the First Trial.

Sam dropped Dean. He normally would've felt awful about that, but at the moment, he barely even noticed. His cock slipped out of him, still dripping with come but instantly flaccid because of the agony. Clutching his head, wet hair wound so tight around his fingers it was cutting off the circulation, Sam staggered backwards through two sprays of water until his hunched back hit tile. He flinched at the heat, extremely sensitive to temperature all of a sudden.

As soon as he was up against the wall, Sam slid down and folded in on himself, head between his knees, heels against his ass. Rocking, he screamed. Dean was there, touching him, talking to him, but Sam cringed away from his fingertips and couldn't understand his words. Even Dean's face, when Sam dared to open his eyes, looked too wrong for him to do more than glance at it.

The only good thing was that he didn't have to deal with it all for long, because everything fell away after a couple of endless seconds.

It was like last time, when an entirely new world came into view for Sam: strange, and shivery around the edges. Not quite as strange, though, or as shivery.

It looked like the entryway to a normal house. A dark wooden door with a glazed window set into the top. A coatrack overflowing with brightly-colored rain slickers and jackets, boots and a large suitcase sitting in a plastic tray underneath. A large, decorative analogue clock on the wall, ticking loudly. It showed 6:18, and going off the light, Sam assumed that was p.m.

A shadow appeared in the window, and someone knocked on the door.

A woman moved into view to answer it, maybe in her mid-forties, her frizzy blonde hair graying. As soon as she'd opened the door to two large men, they stepped inside. Forced to stumble back, she didn't even get the chance to say anything until they were already over the threshold.

"Excuse me, what - what're you doin'?" she demanded in a Southern accent. For the moment at least, she sounded more confused than angry. "Who are you?"

They didn't answer, just crowded her further back into the house. She balled her hands into fists, attempted to stand her ground.

"Get out," she ordered. When they stayed where they were, both of them actually smirking at her, she raised her voice. "Get out of my house, or I'm callin' the police!"

Sam couldn't help the slow curdling deep in his gut. The growing feeling something was very, very wrong.

A man about the same age as the woman emerged from a nearby hallway, probably drawn by her shouting. His rusty beard, thick arms, and surly _Hell's goin' on here?_ expression were all weirdly familiar to Sam, but he didn't know who he was.

The man, immediately mad, opened his mouth, probably to demand an explanation. Sam saw the words die on his tongue, though, as both intruders looked at him, and their eyes shifted to black with the same noise Dean's made.

The man didn't hesitate. Even as the woman was gasping, shocked and choked, he lunged for the suitcase under the coats. Sam recognized the sharpness of his reflexes, the readiness of his body: a hunter. But he never made it to what must have been his arsenal.

One of the demons flung a hand out and the hunter stopped dead. As it cocked its stolen head, the demon rotated its wrist, and the hunter straightened up. Struggling to breathe, he rose with the demon's hand, until the toes of his boots were barely brushing the floor. There was naked terror in his eyes.

"Ed?!" The woman was screaming now, pressed flat against the nearest wall. "What's happening? What are they?!"

Of course he wasn't able to answer. The demon's hand snapped into a fist, there was a horrifyingly-wet crunching noise from inside Ed's chest, and his eyes trembled in their sockets as blood dripped from his mouth and nose. Sam and the woman both watched him die.

She sobbed, just once, dry. The demons turned their attention to her, the one carelessly throwing Ed's body aside. They moved towards her, and she automatically backed up, face blank in the "this-can't-possibly-be-happening" way Sam had seen a hundred times before on civilians. She'd started hyperventilating.

Sam followed her, as she backed down the hallway, past the relics of a safe, happy life that'd just been ripped to twitching pieces in front of her. A bookcase, an end table, a bunch of marker-and-crayon children's drawings taped haphazardly to the wall. It wasn't Sam's decision to keep watching her. His vision tracked her without any action from him.

"Should've known better than to shack up with a hunter," said the other demon, the one who hadn't killed Ed, pleasantly.

The vantage point, suddenly and nauseatingly, switched to a large picture window, just in time to see blood spray across it as the woman shrieked. The sound was raw and primal, ending in a gurgle; the blood was a shockingly dark, rich red. It obscured the trees outside, the darkening sky, the street sign that'd barely been visible to begin with. Sam could still read it: _A DEROUEN RD._

Then it was over. He was back in his body, back in the shower, numb. When his hands dropped from his head, they didn't even feel like they were part of him.

It took Sam way too long to notice the water had been turned off, and that Dean was right next to him, rubbing his back and arms like he was trying to bring him back from the edge of hypothermia. Dean actually might've realized that what'd been happening was over before Sam realized he was there.

"Okay, c'mon," Dean said in the softest, most soothing voice Sam thought he'd ever heard, petting Sam's wet-matted hair. Honestly, coming from Dean, that tone was just weird. "Let's get you in bed."

He guided Sam up onto his feet and out of the shower like he thought it was his first time walking. Sam might've been annoyed by that, but he wasn't confident his legs had fully reconnected to his brain yet. His brain itself wasn't even connected to all its separate sections. He remembered what he'd seen, but it didn't make any sense to him, just a jumble of colors and shapes and sounds. Maybe it did have meaning and Sam was just so relieved not to be in mind-breaking, blinding pain anymore it didn't matter to him.

It wasn't until Dean had wrapped him in a towel, draping it a little awkwardly over Sam's broad shoulders, that Sam got it. It slotted into place, along with an overpowering and white-hot sense of urgency. He was moving before he wanted to, blowing past Dean and out of the mudroom, towel fluttering forgotten off him.

Sam's goal was his laptop, still sitting on the little table in the kitchen from where he'd been doing research before breakfast. That he never reached it reminded him viscerally of the hunter. Ed. Dean appeared in front of him, too quick for it to have been anything but teleportation, and stopped him dead with hands on his upper arms. The pain of impact crushed through Sam's biceps, and he knew he'd bruise. That was definitely more his fault than Dean's, though.

"Hey. No." The softness was gone from Dean's voice, leaving behind steel. "You gotta sit down. You might pass out again."

"No, I'm not gonna pass out, I just - " Sam struggled against Dean's hands. He might as well have been trying to snap out of a pair of police-grade handcuffs. "I gotta - " He leaned around Dean, eyes finding his laptop. "Dean, I _have_ to look something up."

"What?" Dean snapped.

Sam paused. His gaze flicked from the laptop to Dean; his eyes were hard, and Sam, absurdly, thought of lime Lifesavers, even though Dean's eyes were a few shades too dark for the comparison to be accurate. Sam swallowed, finally feeling comfortable in his own skin again. "You're gonna think I'm crazy."

Dean gave him the "hunter look." The "my-whole-life-is-crazy" look. The "nothing-you-can-say'll-surprise-me" look. Except dialed way up, because they were both aware Sam should know better. "Try me, Sammy."

"I think...I think I might've seen the future," Sam said hesitantly, then added, "I _hope_."

He waited for Dean's reaction. The head-shake, the snort, the patient (or not so patient, probably) explanation that psychic powers of that caliber didn't just appear out of the blue at age twenty-five. None of that happened, though. And studying Dean's face, Sam couldn't help noticing he didn't look all that surprised. More like something he'd been really hoping against had just been confirmed.

"What?"

"I don't know, man, I might've..." Dean let go of Sam's arms, slowly and carefully, keeping his hands near Sam's biceps for a couple seconds. Once he was apparently satisfied Sam wasn't about to bolt again, Dean dropped his hands. "...felt some psychic energy comin' off you during your little episode just now." He shrugged, embarrassed. "Or something."

Sam tilted his head. Water dripped off his hair and pattered loud on the hardwood floor during an awkward silence that seemed to stretch on and on.

"Seriously?" Sam broke it finally, letting all his disbelief come through in his tone.

"Like I said, I don't know!" Dean threw his hands up. "Not for sure. I'm not super familiar with it or anything, haven't been around a ton of psychics since I got outta Hell."

"Did you feel it during...when I got the headache right after the First Trial?" Sam desperately wanted to know.

"Maybe," Dean replied, exasperated. "Look, I seriously don't know."

They spent a few seconds just staring at each other again, Dean defensive and concerned and Sam just honestly not sure what to say. Dean was the one who spoke first this time.

"How 'bout you just tell me what you saw and we go from there?" he suggested.

"All right." Sam took a deep breath. He was starting to get cold, adrenaline wearing off. "So, there was a hunter - "

"How d'you know it was a hunter?" Dean interrupted.

Sam shook his head, shrugging. "He seemed to recognize the demons, and they said - "

"Demons?" Dean interrupted again, his voice sharp, but saw something in Sam's face that made him back down right away. "Sorry. I'll stop. Keep going."

"Yeah, there were demons," Sam continued, just a little testily. "They came to...this hunter's house, or the place where he was staying, and they forced their way in. They killed him, and the woman who lived there, and..." Sam covered his face with both hands. "There had to be kids in the house, Dean. Little kids. And I didn't see them die, but no way would they've left them alive."

Dean's head moved, the tiniest shake of agreement. Then he surmised, "That's why you're hoping you saw the future. So you can stop it."

"It felt way too real to just be." Sam's jaw worked helplessly. "A hallucination. And if you got that kind of energy off me, what else could it be?"

Dean didn't actually answer him, just asked "This hunter. You recognize him?"

"Yeah, actually. He looked _super_ familiar, but I just didn't...know..." Sam trailed off, remembering the hunter as suddenly as he'd understood the vision. He had no idea how he'd forgotten him in the first place. After all, the last time he'd seen him, he'd been helping to carry the chair Dean was chained to into Sam's cabin.

"Shit," Sam breathed.

"What?"

"It's Kubrik. The hunter? He was Kubrik." Ed Kubrik, apparently. Sam hadn't known his first name before now.

Sam could tell by Dean's reaction, especially the way his eyes flickered black, that he recognized the name.

"Sounds like he deserved it, then," he said nonchalantly. "Or is gonna deserve it. Whatever."

"No - you don't get it." Sam started to argue, even though he couldn't say the response came as a surprise to him. Or that he didn't share at least some of Dean's feelings after the phone call, and knowing what Kubrik had helped Gordon do to Dean. "If this is gonna happen, I don't know the exact day, but I know the time down to the minute." Something else came back to him. "And I saw a street sign! It had a really unique name, so. I bet you we could find this place, a-and save these people."

"Why in the hell would you want to though, Sam?" Dean demanded. "I'm _intimately_ familiar with that Kubrik asshole, trust me." His fingertips went to his solar plexus, tracing out the deep, messy stab wound he'd had there when he'd first come to Sam. "Far as I'm concerned, you'd be better off giving him the same treatment you gave Gordon. Or, even better! Letting these demons do it for you."

"So you just wanna write that woman and her kids off as collateral, huh?" Sam asked flatly.

"Kubrik's an asshat." Dean stated it like a fact, which it pretty much was. "If he's staying with these people, then they're probably asshats, too."

"That's not fair," Sam warned.

"Oh, isn't it?" Dean raised his eyebrows. "Sam, the last thing we need right now's to get involved with demons who sound like they're goin' around pickin' off hunters."

Sam squinted at him. "How d'you know that's what they're doing?"

"'Cause I'm one of the sons of bitches who suggested we do that," Dean ground out. "Back when I was still on the other team. It's a war, and hunters're the enemy soldiers. 'Specially ones who make a living outta fucking with demons, like Gordon's crew."

Sam was silent. The information was horrifying, but not surprising. Dean, though, was staring at him, eyes black again, like he expected Sam to throw him out. Maybe even like he halfway wanted him to.

It was a bad time to start shivering, but Sam couldn't help it. As warm as it was in the beach house, he was wet, and standing still.

"You're still sick, too." Sam's utter lack of reaction seemed to have calmed Dean down some, so that must've been the right move. "I told you we weren't gonna leave after one or two days."

" _Unless_ something major happened, and I think this qualifies," Sam argued. "Dean, look, it's not even about Kubrik. It's got nothing to do with him. I hate the guy as much as you do, for hurting you, and palling around with Gordon, and even for that call last week, petty as that is."

He was really getting cold now. He turned to go get his towel out of the mudroom and at least dry off, but an invisible touch stopped him. Sam turned back to Dean, who apparently wasn't letting him go anywhere until they worked through this.

"It was him who called you?" Dean asked, incredulous.

"Yeah." Sam frowned. "Did I...did I not mention that?" He tried to remember, then shook his head. "Whatever. It doesn't matter. What I'm trying to say is that this is about...doing the right thing. Being better than Kubrik is. Y'know?"

"Don't quite see how putting our asses on the line to save a guy who stabbed me and harassed you makes us 'better' than him," Dean replied. "Can't we just not stab and harass people?"

"Stabbing's about sixty percent of our job...look, can I go grab my towel?" Sam pleaded, hugging himself.

"Sure, soon as you admit you're being a dick and agree that we ain't doin' this."

"I can't know something bad's gonna happen and just do _nothing_!" Sam exclaimed. "And you had to know that when you signed on."

Dean's eyes were still black. As he and Sam stared at each other, Sam shoved his frustration aside, and forcibly reminded himself they were partners.

"I understand," Sam began, taking a deep breath, "why you don't wanna do this. I get you're worried about me." Dean's chin dipped, maybe a nod, maybe not. "But I'm hoping you can understand why I feel like I've gotta save these people. And I trust you to take care of me, so you've gotta trust me to take care of myself. I know my limits."

There was a pregnant pause. Then Dean groaned loudly, the black fading from his eyes, smoke retreating into his pupils.

"Okay, fine, don't need another heart-to-heart," Dean grumbled, rubbing at his face with both hands. "Sometimes I really, really hate being in love with you. With all your feelings." He dropped his hands and fixed Sam with a hard stare. "We're gonna have some ground rules, though."

Sam nodded. That was fair.

"One," Dean began, holding up a finger. "Like I said, you're still sick, so you're gonna stay outta the actual combat as much as possible." He waited, but Sam kept himself from protesting. Barely. "Two. Things go sideways, I'm teleporting you right back here...and three: we're holing up again once this is all over, so you can finish getting better." He eyed Sam. "And so we can figure this out. We still don't know you're really seeing the future, and if you are, why? And how?"

"Believe me, I want answers just as much as you," Sam assured.

"More, probably," Dean replied. "Nerd." He cleared his throat. "Okay. Dry off, get dressed, and find me an address. Then we'll just hope we make it there in time, I guess."


	15. Chapter 15

_I'll tell you right now that all your weaknesses as a hunter are going to stem from the fact that you're a human being. You need to eat, you need to sleep, you bleed, you've got emotions that are going to leak out into your actions. And all of that's perfectly fine. It's what separates you from the things you hunt._

 _You're going to meet people you hate. They're going to be involved in your hunts. Criminals, assholes, people you just can't stand for no apparent reason, and your first instinct might be to just let them die. Or kill them. That's your choice. I can't make you do anything and neither can anyone else, and you'll develop your own moral code as you hunt._

 _If you're a halfway normal person, though, chances are every death you're at least remotely connected to is going to eat you alive over the years. No matter how much you hated them._

 _-_ Welcome to Hunting _, Sam Winchester_

* * *

It was a quarter past four in the afternoon, they'd just crossed the border into Louisiana (where Sam had located A Derouen Road), and Sam was definitely not panicking.

He was not anxious, or worried that they were already too late. That he'd seen the past instead of the future or somehow mistaken 6:18 a.m. for 6:18 p.m. That it wasn't even a real vision and he was just going crazy. Sam was perfectly calm, and was not risking a headache by clenching his teeth so hard his jaw thrummed.

Dean's music was blaring. Sam could feel the bass pounding in his sternum like an external heartbeat. He'd never really been able to get into the classic rock his dad and, apparently, Dean had been all about, but he kind of liked the noise. And if nothing else it was a distraction, trying to figure out if Dean's nightmarish singing voice was obnoxious or endearing.

Dean might not've been thrilled about what they were doing. Sam knew he wasn't. But he loved the car, and he loved being in it.

The tape (AC/DC) ended. It'd already been on the second side, so Dean just popped it out and used the opportunity to talk.

"Rest stop up ahead. You gotta take care of anything?"

Sam didn't even realize he was sitting in a sort of stupor in the passenger seat until Dean's voice broke him out of it. "Uh, no. No, I'm good."

When he looked at Dean, Dean was looking back, flatly unimpressed. "You know I can feel it when you lie, right?"

"Whatever." Sam shook his head, annoyed. "I can hold it."

"Can you?" Dean sounded skeptical. It needled something hot and sore inside Sam.

"Okay, well, long as we're talking about _lying_ , how come you didn't tell me I was having psychic episodes 'til I'd pretty much figured it out on my own?"

"You had _one_ without me telling you," Dean pointed out. "And we talked about this. First time, I wasn't even sure what it was."

Dean dropped the AC/DC tape back into the box sitting on the floor between them, grabbed another one, and went to put it in. Impulsively, Sam put a hand across the slot before he could. That earned him another unimpressed look.

"What are you, twelve?"

Sam dropped his hand out of embarrassment. The tape slid in, Dean pressed a couple buttons without using his fingers, and the player whirred as it set to reading the worn plastic.

"Look, dude," Dean began, clearing his throat, "I swear I would've told you, honest. Eventually." He shrugged. "There was just so much other crap goin' on, and you were so sick, I didn't think you needed to be freaking out about this, too."

"I really do appreciate how good of care you took of me while I had the flu," Sam told Dean awkwardly, after a couple seconds of silence. "I don't want you to think I don't."

"Well, you're welcome," Dean replied.

That was the end of the conversation, which wasn't a problem; Sam really didn't want to fight about this. They listened to Styx the rest of the way into Louisiana. Out of all his dad's bands, they were definitely Sam's favorite, and he didn't even entertain the thought that Dean didn't know that. He felt close to him in the car. On their way to save lives, coming out of what Dean, grinning, had called their "love nest" a couple times while they were there. There was plenty of room for both of them, but Dean brushed against Sam every few minutes anyway.

They did wind up making a quick stop for gas. Sam emptied his bladder and grabbed a sandwich at the station, which he'd be grateful for later.

They got to A Derouen Road at 6:03. It was desolate, empty fields on one side, swampy forest on the other, only a few houses set at great distances from each other. Made sense for the outskirts of a very small town. Sam had figured out which house they wanted to check out using Street View, based on what he'd been able to see from the window. He didn't even look at it as they parked across the street.

He felt like he always did before a hunt: heavy in the pit of his stomach, like he was doing something he'd rather not. Scared of things going wrong, people dying. But also resolute. He was doing the right thing. He had to.

"We've got a few minutes." Sam had put his Kurdish dagger inside his jacket before they left the beach. He checked now to make sure it was still there. "I'm gonna grab the salt, you get your angel blade. Think we should try and explain what's going on?"

"Might be kinda late for that; demons're already here," Dean replied tensely.

Sam's head whipped up, shock pulsing icy through his stomach. His eyes found the house immediately. The dark wooden door, with its glazed window, was gaping open.

"Shit, shit, _shit_ \- " Sam scrambled breathlessly out of the car. There was no time to grab the salt which, for some stupid reason, he'd left with the rest of the arsenal in the trunk. _Don't cramp, don't cramp, don't cramp,_ he thought angrily at what'd used to be his bad leg as he and Dean flat-out sprinted across the street. Miraculously, it actually seemed to listen to him. For the first time since he was seventeen.

"Clock must be fast," Dean commented as they ran. Sam had his knife out, and he could feel Dean's eyes on it while they were bolting up the house's front steps. "Remember. You're _not_ fighting."

Sam was silent. He wasn't sure he could promise that, in a situation like this, and there was no time to say anything anyway. They were already standing in the doorway.

The scene was straight out of Sam's vision, and that might've been gratifying for him if there hadn't been innocent lives on the line. Only the angle was different. There was the woman, terrified, pressed against the wall. The demons, their backs to Sam but their eyes presumably black, one with his arm raised. And Kubrik, hanging in the air, choking, eyes bugging past their sockets.

All four, including Kubrik, turned to look at Sam and Dean with shock when they showed up. The demons' expressions morphed quickly to awe and disbelief. Kubrik's went to horror, then fury, despite the telekinetic hold the one demon still had on his throat. Only the woman stayed shocked.

The demon who wasn't holding Kubrik up off the floor broke the silence that'd set in. "That Alastair's Knight?"

Dean was already grinning when Sam looked at him, savage and feral, pink slivers of gum showing above and below his teeth. "Oh, you're gonna wish you didn't say that, buddy." His eyes flicked instantaneously black. "Look, you can make this real easy on yourselves. Not that I think you're gonna. Just drop the hunter, get the hell outta here, and never come back."

The demon who had a hold of Kubrik did drop him. He crumpled like his joints were made of paper as soon as he hit the ground, coughing wetly. But then the demon and his partner headed for Sam and Dean with no hesitation.

"Right." Somehow, Dean had his angel blade, the one he'd wrapped with duct tape, in his hand. Sam thought it was in the trunk. "You guys ain't too bright, are ya?"

Dean backed up, out onto the porch. Picking up on what he was doing, Sam sidestepped the demons and flattened himself against the wall. He would've been a mirror of the blonde woman, but she'd taken a couple tentative steps towards the struggling Kubrik, her face so blank it was practically a mask.

One of the demons, wearing a lanky, raw-boned redhead, glanced at Sam as they passed, but they were clearly more interested in Dean.

Which was not something Sam planned on bitching about. He stowed his knife in his jacket for now and headed deeper into the house. He went to help Kubrik up, since the woman didn't look like she'd be getting there anytime soon, even though the thought of getting close enough to touch him ground Sam's teeth against each other. Watching Kubrik's organs crushed inside his body a few hours earlier hadn't drummed up any sympathy for him.

Predictably, Kubrik tried to shove Sam away as soon as he bent down. It felt like being pushed by a toddler, since all his energy was still going into the loud, raw coughing, so it wasn't very effective. Sam stepped back anyway.

"What the _hell_ 're you and - that black-eyed fucker doin' here?" Kubrik snarled, as best he could when he kept interrupting himself with coughs. He glared up at Sam, eyes streaming and whites flooded with freshly-broken blood vessels.

"Trying to help, obviously," Sam answered shortly. Screw it. He bent down again, grabbed Kubrik's bicep despite his feeble struggles, and hauled him to his feet. It wasn't easy. He was much heavier than Dean and, admittedly, most of that was probably muscle.

Sounds of fighting drifted in through the open door. Hisses, grunts, the harsh chime of metal hitting metal. Dean occasionally laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound.

"Tryin' to help, my ass." Kubrik ripped himself away from Sam, nearly overbalancing and smacking right back into the floor. The woman grabbed for him, but he managed to catch himself on the wall. He basically fell into it. "Can't be a coincidence, _you two_ showin' up here when - "

"Y'know, you can believe whatever you want," Sam snapped, interrupting Kubrik as he tossed his hands up into the air. "But _I'm_ not the one who somehow forgot to put down salt. As a hunter. On the East Coast." Because how the hell else would those demons, would Dean, have been able to just walk into this house full of civilians and children?

Kubrik, miraculously, didn't have anything to say to that, no excuses or explanations. He just glared at Sam with his wet red eyes. He was starting to cough less, but still didn't seem able to catch his breath. Much later than he probably should have, Sam realized he wouldn't be any help. Not even if he wasn't halfway dead.

Sam turned to the woman. This close, he could see she had on a little bit of eye makeup, and that it was smeared. "We've gotta get you guys someplace safe. Is there anybody else in the house?"

He could've asked about her kids specifically. But she was already panicking without him knowing more about her than he should, and he didn't feel like explaining himself.

"You're with them," the woman said shakily. "You're one of them. That guy you were with, he's got - "

"No, I'm not." Sam cut her off much more gently than he had Kubrik. "I'm a hunter, just like him." He nodded to Kubrik, who looked like he'd rather be choked by a demon again than compared to Sam. "Dean's a demon, yeah. But he's... _my_ demon."

Kubrik laughed at that, low and ugly. Sam ignored him.

"All we want's to help out."

"You think we're gonna buy that?" Kubrik demanded. "You're a murderer, asshole. And a traitor to your own damn race."

Sam was mildly surprised he didn't throw "fag" in there. He might've had a tougher time keeping his cool if Kubrik had, and it already wasn't easy.

"What choice d'you have right now, Kubrik?" Sam asked him, with the steely calm years of dealing with his dad and other stubborn-ass hunters had left him able to summon. "Are _you_ gonna take care of this? You can barely stand right now." He glanced at the woman, then over his shoulder and out the door. He couldn't see anything through it but the sunset, but the sounds made it painfully obvious they weren't in the clear yet.

There was a long pause. Kubrik glared. The clock Sam'd seen in his vision, apparently built more for looks than accurately keeping time, loudly ticked away misshapen seconds next to him.

"My," the woman started. Sam looked at her again, surprised. Her voice broke on the first word, so she tried again. "My kids. Devon and Amber."

"Okay." Sam nodded. "Get them, and all four of you head to the back of the house." He kept his voice calm, steady, professional. "You got salt in your kitchen?"

"There's a shaker on the table..."

"No, I need a - a canister."

"Oh, cabinet next to the fridge." The woman blinked slowly, like she was in a dream. "I think."

"Thanks." Sam was familiar with houses like this, ranches built for the standard middle-class family. God knew he'd found enough ghosts and accidental werewolves and wine mom witches in them back before the thing with his leg. He headed off towards where the kitchen probably was as the woman (wife? Girlfriend? One-night stand?) moved to help Kubrik.

Sam knew Dean would've loved the kitchen as soon as he stepped into it. It was huge, open, very modern. There was space for an island and a table. The countertops were granite, the appliances all brand-new chrome, and there was a windowbox full of living herbs over the sink. The massive fridge had French doors. As he opened the cabinet next to it and located a box of Morton's among all the spices, Sam thought about what Dean could do with a kitchen like this. The one back at the beach house had damn near transformed him into Rachel Ray and it'd been maybe a fifth this size.

Sam could still hear him. He hoped. Dean had stopped laughing, and it was hard to tell which of the remaining sounds belonged to who. There was still a fight going on, though, and that would've stopped if a couple dumb grunt demons had somehow managed to kill or trap a Knight of Hell.

It was like shoving his arm through a hole in the wall and waiting for someone on the other side to start chopping off fingers, not being able to help Dean or even get eyes on him. A sick, distant, marathon-heartbeat feeling. But splitting up, trusting each other, was part of hunting. Being partners. So Sam grabbed the stupid salt, left the kitchen and the mindset, and went looking for Kubrik and the others.

He found them in the den. Kubrik was sprawled in the corner of the couch, looking like somebody'd zapped death in the microwave for a few seconds, and he'd brought his suitcase arsenal with him. It was in his lap, dwarfing him. The woman was sitting on the other end, a frightened, strawberry-blonde elementary schooler clutched close to each side.

"Forgot to tell ya how great you look with all that girly hair gone," Kubrik wheezed sarcastically as soon as Sam came into the room. The woman shot him a look, puzzled but not reproachful.

Sam said nothing. It was easier that way. But he was sure his jaw was jutting in the way his father, a decade ago, had told him was a tell for his anger.

Dean called it his bitchface. One of them.

Sam popped the salt open and shook a thick circle out around the couch. The woman must be familiar with this ritual, because she didn't say anything about him dumping salt all over the carpet. Once he'd closed it off, he pulled his knife again and stepped inside, facing the door. He ignored Kubrik's death glare. At the very least, he'd just proven to him he was human. Never mind the woman and her kids flinching when the knife came out.

After that, it was a waiting game. Sam hated it. The sounds were muffled back here but they still came through; that the fight was still going on made him think reinforcements must've arrived. At least the house was isolated enough the neighbors probably weren't going to call the cops. Sheriff's deputies would be no match for even one low-level demon with telekinetic powers.

Even with a whole legion out there, though, it seemed like it was taking too long. Sam was just going to go check on Dean ( _super quick, I swear_ ) when someone spoke up behind him.

"Um." The voice was high, uncertain. He turned to see the girl, Amber, staring at him with wide, worried eyes. "Who're you?"

"I'm Sam." He smiled to try and put her at ease. "I'm just here to make sure you guys stay safe, all right? I won't be here long."

"Are you one of Dad's friends?" the boy, Devon, asked. Sam wondered yet again just what Kubrik was to these people.

"Aw, fuck, no," Kubrik huffed out with a snort before Sam could say anything. The woman glared at him, putting a hand each over her kids' ears and pressing the others to her chest.

"We know each other," Sam said neutrally. An awkward silence filled a couple seconds.

"How'd you know we were in trouble?" the woman asked eventually.

"'Cause all'a Hell's got him by the dick, Lacie," Kubrik cut in loudly. "Sasquatch here used to be a cripple, but you don't see him limpin', do ya? That's 'cause he sold his soul _and_ his ass to the demon he pranced in here with." Kubrik stared Sam down with an expression that could burn holes through wallpaper. "Don't got any idea what his game here is, but _obviousl_ \- "

He cut himself off mid-word with a loud wheeze and clutched at his right arm, going pale. Despite the wounds Dean had come to him with, and the phone call, and the rage simmering bitter in his stomach right now, Sam took a step towards Kubrik.

"Are you - "

"Fuck away from me, faggot," Kubrik forced out through gritted teeth.

 _How could I say no to a request like that?_ Sam thought sarcastically as he stepped back to the edge of the circle, raising his hands and _not_ rolling his eyes.

At least he wasn't alone with Kubrik all that much longer. The floorboards creaked under a pair of boots, just one. Still, Sam tensed until Dean came through the door.

He was dirty. His (Sam's, actually) flannel was torn, along with his jeans. A spray of arterial-looking blood crossed his T-shirt and there was a smear of something darker on his face, where he wore a sullen expression, but he was okay. Whole. No wounds Sam could see.

"They were bottom-of-the-barrel," Dean announced, looking at Sam. "Nothing like that geezer I took on back in Wyoming. But there were more than half a dozen of the little bastards, so. Took longer than I wanted."

Sam stepped out of the salt circle, knife still in hand, and wrapped Dean in a hug as soon as he reached him. He squeezed tight enough he would've worried about cracking ribs on anybody else.

"Whoa." Dean sounded surprised, but very pleased. "Down, boy. We're in mixed company."

"Thank you," Sam mumbled. He heard Kubrik open his suitcase but barely registered it.

"Yeah, yeah..." Dean patted Sam's back. "Can't believe we managed to pull this off, honestly."

Sam took a deep breath and let go of Dean, starting to talk even as he turned to face the family again. This was still a case, although not a traditional one, and all the loose ends needed to be tied off before they could relax.

"All right, so, the demons're gone, but you guys are probably gonna want - "

He was cut off by Lacie, her voice sharp.

"Ed, what're you doing?"

Sam turned fully, saw the suitcase fallen open on Kubrik's lap to expose its surprisingly-neat contents. There was a sawed-off in his hands, pointing squarely at Sam and Dean. Sam swallowed and, moving in the slow, careful way he'd learned to use when there was a gun on him, stood next to Dean.

Kubrik looked awful. Breathing hard, gray-faced. But the barrel of the shotgun smoothly tracked Sam anyway.

"Well, I'd say I'm surprised, Ed," Dean started, South Dakota twang coming through thick, "but that'd make me a demon _and_ a liar."

"You shut up." Kubrik's lip curled up over his nicotine-colored teeth. "Either you brought those other demons here or they brought you. I don't care." He adjusted his grip on the gun. "I ain't gonna let you hurt my family."

"So you're gonna shoot us," Dean deadpanned. Kubrik chuckled bitterly.

"I know I can't hurt _you_ , much as I'd like to. But him?" He waggled the gun, emphasizing that it was pointing at Sam. "He ain't leavin' alive." The gun began to tremble, a shaking that had its root in Kubrik's hands. "Not after what he did to Gordon."

There was a _flick_ ing. Sam glanced at Dean to see that his eyes, green when he came in, had changed to black.

"Okay, before you shoot my boyfriend...who just _saved_ you and your family's sorry asses, by the way," Dean began calmly. Lacie and her kids were silent, tense, pressed into the couch as far from Kubrik, and also Sam and Dean, as they could get. "Or probably the wall next to him, based on how you're holding that thing, lemme tell you something, Eddie."

Dean smiled. It was predatory, despite not showing any teeth, and as it spread slowly across his face, something about it looked fully inhuman to Sam. Maybe it was just the black eyes.

"You're about as smart as those other demons were."

The fingers on one of Dean's hands, down by his leg, twitched. Sam hardly caught the movement even with his adrenaline-heightened senses. He was immediately distracted by the shotgun ripping itself out of Kubrik's hands so fast it broke at least one of his wrists. Sam heard the wet, meaty _crack_ of living bone snapping.

The gun hit the floor outside the salt circle and tumbled across the carpet. Sam flinched, but it didn't go off. Kubrik toppled forward off the couch, howling, bottles of lighter fluid and boxes of ammo scattering as his suitcase spilled under him. He clutched his wrist, shudders rolling violently through him, face screwed up in a study of agony. Lacie and the kids were all screaming in horror.

Dean stepped forward, face icy blank, and put a hand out towards Kubrik. He started curling his fingers in slightly. When Sam reached out and grabbed Dean's forearm, it felt like putting his feet on Gordon's head. Or like it wasn't even his hand at all.

"No. Dean, no. Don't kill him. Don't. Just..." Talking fast, low, and firm, Sam paused to swallow thickly. "Let's just get outta here."

Dean looked at him, black eyes glittering under the den's lights. It was fully dark outside. It had been broad daylight in Sam's cabin. Dean had been gone, exorcised, back in Hell. And Sam was the one pulling the metaphorical trigger on another hunter.

But it felt the same, all the same, exactly the same, and the idea of thrusting his hands into another pool of human blood filled Sam with more despair than he'd felt since he realized how bad of shape his leg was really in. The cabin overlaid Lacie's house and Gordon overlaid Kubrik, and everything was too close, too bright, too loud.

"I've got his heart," Dean was saying, as casually as if they were having a conversation about where to stop for the night out in the Impala. "It's already crapping out, Sammy. I crush it, he won't even feel anything, promise." He leaned in. "He's a fucking _animal._ Putting him down's doin' everyone a favor, you and me especially. Just like with Gordon."

 _"No."_

Sam looked at the salt circle again, even though he felt brittle enough for the turning of his head to shatter him. Lacie had rushed to Kubrik's side, falling to her knees on top of all the bullets and knives where he was writhing on the ground. The kids were still sitting on the couch, clutching at each other like they didn't know what else to do, shock leaving their eyes dry as they cried. Unlike in Sam's vision, all four were alive.

"It doesn't matter." Sam looked at Dean again and hoped he looked much, much stronger than he felt. "It's not worth it."

Dean stared back. There was no emotion at all on his face, and his eyes were impossible to read. Sam's leg hurt, muscle cramping tight and hot against the bone, but he stood perfectly still.

It might've been a whole decade later that Dean dropped his hand. Sam let go of him. Then they left, sobs and screams wavering through the house of the family whose lives they'd saved.


	16. Chapter 16

_We know basically nothing about angels. Their hierarchy and biology are largely mysteries to us. We know they come from and return to a place they refer to as Heaven, but we don't know what it is or what it's like. They've mentioned God in the past. We don't know anything about Him._

 _[Handwritten note in the margins: Look into possibility of capture/interrogation. Super dangerous, no one will want to do it. I don't want to do it. Necessary though.]_

 _Here's what we do know:_

 _* Angels possess humans, just like demons [Note: can't be just any vessel. One bred specifically for that type of angel? Cherubs may play a role here.]_

 _* Angels can teleport, or fly, with their wings_

 _* The blades they carry can kill most things; we have five or six dozen scattered through our community [Note: Blades are made of what?]_

 _*They die if you hit them in their center of mass with these blades, but it's really hard_

 _* They're highly organized and loyal to each other_

 _* They're very powerful [Note: Add list of specific powers. Killing demons, telekinesis, others?]_

 _* You can contain most in a circle of flaming holy oil_

 _*Trouble follows them everywhere [Note: Elaborate.]_

 _I'm sorry this section is so short. If you come across an angel (or, worse, a group of them), the best advice I can offer is getting as far away from them as possible._

 _[Note: Lots more angel encounters recently, really seem to be ticking up. Be good to write a whole book on them but don't have enough information yet. Talk to Garth & Charlie, put feelers out. Find out more.]_

 _-_ Demons and Other Biblical Monsters _, Sam Winchester, personal copy with notes_

* * *

"Well, I think that went fucking _fantastic_."

They'd been on the road that led back to Surfside Beach for hours when Dean's fake, manic cheerfulness broke the silence that'd dogged them since A Derouen Road. Sam, exhausted and discouraged, hadn't had any idea what Dean was thinking up to this point. He'd gotten the feeling he was brooding but hoped he was wrong. Clearly, he hadn't been.

"Which part?" Sam asked flatly, after clearing his throat. "When he was gonna shoot me, or when you almost killed him in front of his kids?"

"Probably weren't even really his kids," Dean muttered. He wasn't looking at Sam, eyes on the very empty, very straight road instead.

"They looked like him." Sam yawned. "And why's it even matter? They called him Dad. They cared about him. Can you imagine what that would've done to them? Watching him die?"

Dean was silent. Sam continued: "I'm not blood-related to any of the people I consider family, anymore. Including you."

"I know. I know. I was the same." Dean exhaled explosively through his nose. "And I get it. The kids. But you just should've let me kill him anyway, man." He shook his head. "I know him. I know his type. He's rotten to the core, just like Gordon. Only hunts so he can get his jollies torturing monsters way more than he needs to."

Sam was slumped in the passenger seat, legs fallen open, one knee angled towards Dean and the other the door. Dean finally looked at him.

"We _saved_ him, the lady, the kids, and he _still_ was gonna try and blow you away."

"I just...couldn't." Sam had no idea why it was so difficult to get the words out. "I couldn't. I'm sorry."

There was another loud exhale from Dean.

"I know I shouldn't've. Should've just taken the gun away and split." Sam turned his head towards Dean, cheek resting against worn leather. It'd be easy, feel good, to drift off, but he'd slept in the car way too much lately. Not to mention that he didn't trust the dreams he'd probably have right now. "But, fuck, I _snapped_. I was _mad_. I hated that bastard to begin with, and then he wanted to hurt you. He was gonna shoot you after you dragged his ass outta the fire, and I just..." Dean trailed off, eyes back on the road.

"I know." Sam sucked in a deep breath once he was sure Dean was finished talking, then let it out. "If I'd just stepped back and let it happen, I'm...not sure I'd be regretting it right now. But he's alive." Assuming Lacie'd called an ambulance for Kubrik. "And so're the kids. And the other demons're all dead, and that's what matters."

Dean grunted. Sam wasn't sure if it was in agreement or just acknowledgment. A second later, he changed the subject.

"How're you doin'?" Dean's eyes were green. They had been since they'd left the house. "You feelin' okay?"

"Yeah." The sickness in Sam's soul, what had reared up back in Kubrik's den, had faded into dormancy again, leaving him feeling nothing but tired.

"You sure?"

Because he obviously wasn't going to get away with a one-word answer, Sam elaborated. "I mean, I'm not... _happy_ about how things went tonight - " He glanced at the clock set into the dash and corrected himself. " - last night. That goes without saying. But I'm fine, Dean."

"So no more headaches?" Dean asked after a slight pause.

"No. Nothing."

"Well," Dean began, "one good thing about that shitshow back there: we know for sure you're actually seeing the future. Everything happened just like you said it would, until we showed up and started throwing wrenches into stuff."

"Yeah, I..." Unbidden, Sam's first jumbled mess of a vision dragged itself back, kind of like his memories of what'd happened with Gordon. He'd seen Bobby and Vaughn. One could, technically, still be alive somewhere. The other, he'd burned with his own hands. He'd also seen himself, in terrible shape, being forced to the ground by a black-eyed Dean. "I guess so."

It'd been better when he thought they were hallucinations. Sam silently resented the pressure, the anxiety, that came from knowing it was all real. Like they didn't have enough to worry about already.

"That's why I think we oughta, y'know, hold off on the Second Trial. And probably normal hunting, too."

Dean said it steadily, carefully. It woke Sam right up anyway. He shoved himself upright in the seat.

"Seriously?"

"I didn't say we should stop completely. I just think we need to take a breather, not go rushing into anything until we know why this is happening to you."

Dean's firm tone pissed Sam off in the same way him explaining why he had to rest up at the beach house had. Because Dean was being totally reasonable and not even Sam's finicky, irrational human emotions could stop him from being won over.

"Yeah, I agree," Sam said, realizing he wasn't as frustrated as he could be. "But do we really need to stop hunting?"

"It floors you when it happens, Sammy," Dean stated. "You can't see yourself, but it looks like you're having a freakin' seizure, okay? If a vision hits you while we're choppin' our way through a nest of vampires or something, I'm not totally sure I can keep you safe." He didn't say anything for a second, sucking on his lower lip. That was so human it kept Sam quiet, too. "I don't have a good feeling about _why_ you're seeing the future, either, 'cause it ain't the Trials." Dean put a hand on his chest. "I didn't get any psychic powers outta nowhere when I was doing 'em, and I did two."

"I get that, I do. But this time, I saw a case. Somebody who would've died without our help." Seeing the look Dean shot him, Sam amended, "Not that they necessarily wanted it. Or appreciated it. But what if that keeps happening?"

"What, 'cause you can't ignore it?"

"No."

"I could go take care of it, if it's simple." Sam literally saw Dean rethink that as soon as the words were out of his mouth. "Yeah, that's probably not a great idea, actually. I don't know. Maybe you could try calling - "

Dean abruptly cut himself off. Sam had been looking at him, so he saw his eyes turn black, and his whole demeanor change. Every muscle in his body went rigid and his jaw set, shoulders hunching defensively.

"Something's coming," he said tensely.

It was the middle of the night, no moon, and the stretch of road they were on as entirely deserted. The car reeked of blood and sulfur thanks to the demonic bodily fluids Dean was still covered in. And Sam wasn't really at peak performance.

He'd been raised a hunter, dealt with monsters, ghosts, and witches most of his life. That didn't mean, though, that he never got scared. And there was something absolutely horrifying about what Dean had just said.

Fear prickled up and down Sam's spine, and drew the muscles of his left calf painfully tight. Then, before he could ask Dean for at least a few more details, a headache dug its nauseous claws into his brain.

It wasn't as bad as the last two had been. Not nearly. But that was like comparing the damage cause by a shotgun and a .45; they were both still bullet wounds. Gasping, Sam clutched his head with both hands and doubled over. His head hit the dash but he barely noticed. All the pain was inside. It was like somebody had filled every space in his skull with expanding foam.

"Sammy?" Dean demanded, voice gravelly and alarmed.

"I - " Waiting on the vision, Sam struggled to answer. The agony would be gone in a second. And then...and then. A sudden flash of terror at what he might see would've paralyzed him, if the headache hadn't already been doing it. But it wasn't like there was anything he could do to stop it.

Even if there was, what if he saw someone else who would die without their help? Could he run the risk of not finding out about that?

The vision never came, though. Instead, something else happened.

It was like Sam suddenly had a dozen extra arms, diaphanous and badly-formed, ripping themselves jerkily free of the center of his forehead. That wasn't a perfect metaphor, but it was as close as his panicking, fevered brain could get to the real feeling, which was damn near intolerable. The pain had stuck around, too. Saliva flooded Sam's mouth, but he swallowed hard. If he puked in the car, Dean would probably make sure the headache and whatever was "coming" would be the least of his problems.

Violent trembling shook Sam, a moan rattling out of him. He had no control over the flailing, melting things, totally invisible, that'd spilled out of his face. One cracked the window next to him, a few others unlocked every door in the car. One latched onto something hard and curved. Sam had less than a second to identify it as the steering wheel before the limb yanked, violent and involuntary.

Dean swore as the car whipped to the side with a screech of its tires, struggling to keep it under control. Sam felt them leave the road, the gravel of the soft shoulder spraying loud against the undercarriage for half a second before they were bouncing across the marshy fields that filled the surrounding countryside. Something much stronger than his twitching, stuttering arms shoved them away from the wheel, the window, the locks, everything. They collapsed back in on Sam even as they withered away, taking the pain of the headache with them.

Gratefully gulping in air that no longer tasted sharp with agony, Sam sat up, shaking and sweating. He was just in time to see a human figure pop into being feet from the car, and to lurch savagely forward when Dean slammed on the brakes. He probably would've smashed every bone in his face on the dashboard if Dean hadn't also flung an arm across his chest, lightning-fast. As it was, he felt his ribs bend, and the wind was knocked cleanly out of him.

For one heart-stopping second, all of the car's weight was on its front wheels. Then the back half crashed back down to earth with a groan, shocks that probably would've given out if Dean hadn't replaced them eight months ago rocking.

There was a second or two afterwards where nothing happened and no one said anything (with the exception of the Impala's engine, which was still purring weakly). Sam took the opportunity to examine the guy who'd appeared in front of them, through the lens of bright and abrasive shock.

He was tall, probably just shy of six feet. His dark hair was messy, and the trench coat he was wearing over his business suit was rumpled. His tie was on backwards. There were bags under his bright blue eyes and unshaven scruff on his jaw, and he looked _so_ familiar.

Sam recognized him before too much longer, from his first vision with Bobby and Vaughn.

Dean swore again as the guy - the angel - examined the car impassively, face totally expressionless.

"Oh, shit. Just fuckin' great." Dean was pissed. Sam could've told that even if he hadn't been talking. " _Exactly_ what we needed."

He shoved a hand under the seat and came up with his angel blade, which he must've stashed there after the disaster at Kubrik's house. Then he killed the engine, taking the keys with him as he climbed out of the car. The headlights died then, of course, and they were left in darkness. Sam followed Dean out, feeling weak, dizzy, and confused. His leg hurt. But at least his head didn't.

"What the hell're you doing here?" Dean stalked right up to the angel. Sam could barely make out either of them, but what little light there was caught Dean's blade, held unmistakably at the ready. "Neither of us've ever screwed with any of you. We've got nothing to do with you guys." He stopped about a foot away, glaring with black eyes. He gestured aggressively with his blade. "Just flap your feathery ass back home and we won't have any trouble."

The angel looked at Dean, full-on, for the first time. His reaction wasn't quite as bad as Blue's had been, but there was definitely a reaction. His eyes narrowed and his lips thinned, and he leaned away from Dean, just slightly. The motion somehow managed to convey disgust rather than fear. At just the fact Dean was a demon or his true form, Sam had no idea.

"I'm afraid you're mistaken." The angel's voice was much deeper than Sam would've expected from his fine features, and even rougher than Dean's. "I have every right to be here: you _are_ involved with Heaven." He nodded at Sam. "He is, at least."

"What?" Sam blurted out before he could stop himself. At least nobody seemed to be paying any attention to him.

"The hell he is," Dean snarled. The angel appeared mostly unruffled by his anger, regarding him with something that had as good a chance of being distaste as wariness.

"I'm sorry, who...who are you?" Sam already knew, more or less. The name and what he was doing here were still a mystery, obviously, but Sam's main goal was to draw his focus off Dean.

The angel gave him his full attention. He seemed somewhat relieved to be able to look away from Dean.

"My name is Castiel," he said. "And I am an angel of the Lord."


	17. Chapter 17

**Still not totally sure about this plot point.**

* * *

 _Not a huge fan of angels, I've got to say._

 _Prancing around out here with all their "higher power" and "greater good" and "predetermination" bullshit. Don't talk to me about the greater good, I've been hunting for twenty years. And with all the people I've saved, if I wasn't "destined" to do this, I don't wanna hear about it._

 _Didn't get the whole religious indoctrination thing a lot of hunters did. Guess I oughta be grateful Bobby wasn't ever into that kinda thing. Still, when I first heard about angels, figured they had to be good. Holy messengers of God, you know? Creatures of the light. Maybe they were even gonna fix everything._

 _Yeah, I'd read plenty out of the Bible. I was just real stupid back then._

 _Of course I was wrong. If their orders come straight from God, then He's a dick, which is something I guess I knew before. All they care about's obeying their superiors and carrying out the "plans" the exact way Heaven wants them to, no matter how many people die because of it. They're all a bunch of little feathery robots. If they've even got feelings, they sure don't seem to bother them much._

 _Better not to get mixed up with them. They'll start thinking they can use you, and then all kinds of bad things are gonna happen, and it'll be partly your fault._

 _If you think I'm still bitter over what happened with Anna, you're damn right I am._

 _\- Personal journal of Dean Singer, c. 1980_

* * *

There was silence after Castiel's introduction. Just for a few seconds. Then Dean spoke up.

"Great," he said sarcastically. "I'm Dean, Knight of Hell. And this is Sam, nerdy-ass researcher." He gestured to him. "Of the hunters."

His eyes having adjusted to the kind of darkness that only occurred out on rural back roads, Sam glanced at Dean, frowning a little. Dean just shrugged back.

"I'm fully aware of who you are," Castiel responded, tone short.

"Awesome," Dean replied. Again, sarcastically. Then, very deliberately, he demanded, "Why are you here?"

"For him." Castiel looked at Sam, spoke directly to him. "For you. Don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid." It was true. Despite knowing, more or less, what angels were capable of, and not being sure who'd win if Dean decided to pick a fight with this one, Sam was mostly just frustrated. And fed up. "I just wanna know what's going on."

"I've been assigned to protect and guide you," Castiel stated. "Something you are sorely in need of, based on the..." He glanced at Dean. "Company you're keeping."

Dean chuckled humorlessly as he moved in closer to Sam. Castiel watched him, wary, but didn't really react. Sam couldn't deny some primal, vulnerable part of him felt better once he could feel Dean right next to him even though, since Dean could teleport, the shorter distance didn't mean much at all.

Dean was still holding his angel blade, a threat glinting silver and obvious. Sam wondered if he should bring out his own knife, still inside his jacket where he'd stashed it at Kubrik's house, probably useless against an angel. Instead, he asked, "Is this because of the Trials?"

Dean hadn't mentioned getting his own guardian angel. But why else would Heaven be interested in Sam?

"No." A slight pause. "Partly, I suppose. Your completion of the First Trial of God was an extremely unfortunate oversight, one that will not be allowed to happen again. I promise."

"You don't want me to finish the Trials?" Sam was incredulous. That was kind of what Dean had just been saying to him, but he'd been reasonably convincing him to hold off, not telling him to quit outright. And there was something about hearing it from an angel he'd barely met that pissed Sam off way more than hearing it from Dean.

"We can't afford the damage they'll do to you." Castiel's flat affect became suddenly impassioned. "Sam, you have no idea how important - "

Dean cut him off.

"Okay, yeah, that sounds fantastic." Dean shifted his blade to his left hand so he could grab Sam's shoulder. "Just real great. But we've had kind of a long night, and the last thing either of us feels like right now is gettin' tangled up in your kinda crap." He cleared his throat. "So, like I said earlier. Flap on home, Clarence."

"Castiel," Castiel corrected.

"Uh huh." Dean patted Sam's shoulder. "We're done here."

He moved to guide Sam back into the passenger seat, turning around and walking him to the door. For a second, Sam wondered why he didn't just let him get in on his own, looking at the unimpressed mask of Dean's face. He knew him well enough by now to then realize Dean was scared. He must not feel comfortable leaving Sam alone for so much as a moment. The bravado, turning his back on Castiel; it was a show to try and make him think Dean didn't consider him a real threat.

Most tellingly, his blade stayed in his hand, held at a perfect striking angle.

Dean was afraid. That should've been a clue Sam needed to be scared shitless. But instead, the "nerdy-ass researcher" in him was coming to the surface, and it couldn't ever leave a stone unturned. What he _needed_ was to know what was happening.

"Wait, I - " Sam glanced back over his shoulder at Castiel with the danger of the situation ringing loud in his awareness.

"Trust me, we wanna go." Dean ground it out under his breath, so low Sam could barely hear. Castiel probably picked it up, though.

"Samuel Winchester." The angel's call, clear and ringing, made them both pause and look back at him. Sam read reluctance and wariness in Dean's movements. Lightning flashed far off in the distance, the light throwing Castiel's shadow (complete with half-spread wings, as if there'd been any doubt about what he was) huge on the field and mossy trees behind him.

"You are vital." Castiel addressed Sam directly. "You will decide the future of the world. My mission is to make sure that you make all the correct choices, and leaving now, with _him_ \- " Castiel jerked his head at Dean. " - is definitely not one of them."

"Oh, ain't it?" Dean was pissed. "You're green, I can tell from the way you sit in your vessel. It's your first day on Earth, right? Your first in a long time, at least. And I don't think you've got the juice to stand up to me." Sam couldn't tell whether or not it was a bluff just from listening to him. "So you sayin' you're gonna stop us from leavin', flyboy?"

"I'm saying, if you leave, I'll have no choice but to contact the rest of my garrison and track you down." Castiel lifted his chin. He sounded calm, and there was nothing on his blank face to suggest he was nervous or struggling. But one of his hands twitched a little. Sam, trained to notice things like that, focused on it, wondering if he had an angel blade up that sleeve of his trench coat. One he was trying not to use.

A long, tense silence followed. Clouds were rolling in, covering the stars and snuffing out what little light there was, and lightning flashed again. It was close enough this time for thunder to rumble only a few seconds after it. Finally, Dean spoke up, totally changing the subject.

"You're a seraph, right?" he asked, cocking his head to the side. His eyes were still blacker than the sky above them, and had been since Castiel first showed up. An involuntary reaction to the presence of an angel, some part of Sam's brain supplied cheerfully and uselessly.

"Yes." Castiel's voice was a little stiff, seemingly taken aback by the question.

"So the rest of your garrison. They're seraphs, too?"

Sam shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and looked at Dean out of the corner of his eye. _Where the hell are you going with this?_ Maybe he should just climb into the car. It wasn't warded, though. And even if Dean could take Castiel out in a one-on-one fight, Sam all but knew for a fact the two of them couldn't stand up to an entire garrison (which he was assuming was some kind of group or unit). He wasn't sure they could hide from them, either.

He didn't know what to do. Which he hated, and felt like had been happening every few days this year.

His leg hurt.

"Of course." Now Castiel was confused.

"Who's your captain?"

Castiel appeared to weigh the question. He must've decided that answering couldn't do that much harm. "Annanel."

 _"Right."_ Dean rocked back on his heels some as he nodded upwards, grinning. Lightning flashed again and Sam suddenly wondered if it was Dean doing it. Thunderstorms, after all, were demonic omens. "I was hoping. Anna." He paused, just for a beat. "Y'know, I fucked her."

Sam looked at Dean full on. He managed not to do it too sharply, but couldn't stop the kneejerk hurt that billowed up in him like a drop of black food coloring in water. Castiel reacted a little more strongly.

"No, you didn't," he declared vehemently. "I'm not going to fall for your trickery, demon."

"I _did_. Few times, actually. In the back of my car, even." After a glance at Sam that maybe could've read as guilty, Dean was clearly enjoying this. "She was wearin' this _gorgeous_ little redhead - "

Castiel spoke hotly over him. "If you're trying to provoke me by slandering my captain, it isn't going to work."

The wind picked up, a mirror of the tension, ruffling Sam's hair. A raindrop hit his temple. He glanced up at the sky, then back down at what was rapidly devolving into some sort of locker room argument. Or maybe a playground would've been more accurate.

"Okay, if you're not gonna let us leave without coming after us, how 'bout you tell me why you think I'm so important?" Sam demanded, loud enough to be heard over the wind and the bickering as he put himself verbally in the middle.

He took a step towards Castiel, too, and Dean put a warning hand on his bicep. Sam appreciated the contact, even if he was trying to hold him back. But he didn't react to it.

At least he'd shut down the fight. No one was talking now, which was great, because Sam felt like he'd rather let Dean shave his head than hear him talk about Anna/Annanel any more. Castiel was studying Sam, head cocked birdlike to the side, expression unreadable once again.

"I suppose you deserve to know," he said eventually. "You're a Messiah, Samuel."

Sam could literally hear the capital M in it, like the P in Prophet, and a sliver of him calmly thought to itself that that wasn't how it was usually spelled before he blurted out, "What?" He was stunned, trying to shake the strong Harry Potter vibes that'd suddenly overpowered him, and Dean disbelievingly asked, "Wait, you mean like Jesus?" at the same time.

More raindrops, icy, hit Sam in the face with a gust of wind, making him flinch as Dean pointed at him and repeated his question.

"Are you tryin' to tell us he's Jesus?" Dean demanded of Castiel.

Castiel's lips parted. Before he could answer, though, the wind howled through strong enough to snatch the body of Sam's jacket off his torso and press Castiel's coat into every crease of his vessel. Then a sheet of rain swept over the trees like the wrath of God, loud as machine gunfire. Sam wished he didn't know what that sounded like.

Dean sprang into action a second before the rain hit them, bundling Sam into the car as he got what felt like a slap in the face from a waterfall, then teleporting into the driver's seat himself. Neither of them were really all that wet.

"You just got over the flu," Dean said by way of explanation, looking at Sam. Their fingers were tangled together, though Sam wasn't sure if that was intentional or not. "Don't want you gettin' anything else."

Sam would've told him you couldn't get sick just from being out in the rain, but there was a sudden flapping nose from the back seat, and a puff of air that smelled like apples, mint, and lightning washed over them. They twisted in unison, and Dean hissed through his teeth.

"In my car? Really?" Dean asked Castiel, annoyed. "And - " Dean leaned over the seat, practically hanging his entire upper body into the back to look. "Are you _molting_?"

"It's _not_ my season." Castiel was entirely dry, Sam noted. "And even if it were, far preferable to reeking of sulfur."

Dean's eyes (solid black, still) were hateful. Water was leaking slowly into the car through the window Sam had cracked, where the wind was throwing the rain against it. Castiel laced his fingers together, fumbling the movements some. Like a young child.

"Did you want an explanation or not?" Castiel asked neutrally.

Dean stared hard at him for another couple seconds, then threw up his hands and turned around. "Fine, then. Talk." He pulled the car keys out of his pocket and started the engine, which roared faithfully to life. "Scram when you're done." He turned the heat on, full blast. "And if I see you tryin' anything funny, this - " He flipped his angel blade up so Castiel could see. " - is goin' right between your vessel's eyes. Got it?"

"Understood," Castiel confirmed. "You're possessive."

Sam looked at Dean. Sam was supposedly the high-strung one, but here, with an angel in the car with the two of them and no defense besides a lone blade, the muscles in his neck and shoulders looked like steel cables ready to snap. They were practically vibrating under his wet flannel, and his metaphorical hackles were all the way up.

Sam had never seen him like this. He usually had such good control of his vessel.

"Look, you said I was a Messiah." Sam faced Castiel again as Dean started the long, painstaking task of getting the Impala back on the road, after Sam laid a hand on his forearm. "I...isn't there only one?" The actual, textbook definition of a Messiah popped into his head. "And I'm not even Jewish. My dad's family was Evangelical, I think. And my mom...I'm not sure, Protestant?" It'd be pretty tough to trace a Davidic line back through that.

"I understand why you would think that. The true meaning of the word has been lost and corrupted over the millennia, with translation following translation," Castiel explained. "Dantalion," he glanced grudgingly at Dean, pronouncing the name correctly, "mentioned Jesus. He's not entirely incorrect. Jesus was _a_ Messiah, arguably the most well-known in your culture, but he wasn't the first, and he certainly wasn't the last."

"And I'm...one of these things?" Sam was doubtful. It was a lot to take in, even more to believe. And yet something in him liked this explanation for the visions he'd been having, and the burst of telekinesis earlier. If it would even explain those things. Which Castiel hadn't said it did.

"You are," Castiel affirmed.

"Are you...I mean, are you _sure_?" Sam asked uncertainly. The car rocked and shifted as Dean guided them slowly over the field. A quick glance at his face turned up a clenched jaw and a wrinkled forehead. Maybe he was doing something extra to make sure they didn't sink into the mud. "I'm not...I don't perform miracles." Ellen's comment about that came to mind, but it wasn't the same. "I've seen the future maybe, I don't know, a couple times, and that just started." Sam paused. "I've never...heard God."

"Heaven has confirmed it, and we don't make mistakes."

That prompted a snort from Dean, despite his intense concentration. Castiel switched his attention from Sam to him.

"Yeah, okay, buddy." Dean spoke up once the car was firmly back on the cracked asphalt of the road, water swishing loudly away from the tires. Sam hoped they didn't get caught in a flood. "I think we're gonna need a better explanation of what you think a Messiah is."

"A human," Castiel said, then amended, "of a sort."

Something cold and unpleasant stirred to life in Sam's stomach. He felt Dean looking at him.

"They're born only once every few generations, when the world needs them most. In times of great strife and pivotal significance." Castiel sounded like he was recounting something he'd been told many times before, and savored with each repetition. Something he believed in. "Samuel was...not intended to awaken to his powers for several more years, but the completion of the First Trial...accelerated the schedule somewhat." Castiel straightened up in his seat, trench coat rustling. "Which isn't a problem. We can work around it."

"Right." Dean drew the word out to two long, sarcastic syllables. "'Cause bein' flexible and open to change are the main things angels're known for."

"Please, just...call me Sam," Sam said quietly before Castiel had a chance to respond to that. He felt like he was being smothered, drowning in the water outside the car, and it was hard to get his racing thoughts straight enough to even talk. Even when Dean grabbed and squeezed his knee. "What...what am I?"

"A human, as I said. But one imbued with the power of God Himself." Castiel met Sam's eyes. "You are a gift to the entire world, Samu - " He corrected himself. "Sam. Proof of God's love, of His desire to set things on the right path. You're intended to guide humanity towards its greatest possible future."

Castiel raised a hand and his eyes glowed faintly. Dean tensed even further, which Sam wouldn't've guessed could happen, hand leaving Sam's knee and going for the blade. But there was only a crackling noise from the window next to Sam. When he looked at it, he saw the crack he'd made knitting itself back together. Only smooth glass and raindrops on the inside of the door were left behind.

"You're going to save the world, Sam," Castiel said softly, lowering his hand as the light faded from his eyes. "And I am going to help you."


	18. Chapter 18

_Three months since I last heard from Bobby and still no word. I've been calling all the numbers I've got for him every day, but they're going dead one by one because no one's paying the bills. All his accounts are dead, I've looked and so has Ash. No warrants, no sightings. Even the demons I've summoned are clueless._

 _Garth's been over to the scrapyard, Caleb, Jim, even Ellen. I'd go myself, but somebody would have to drive me, and me limping around out there isn't gonna be much help when everyone else has already been over the place with a fine-toothed comb. They said all the doors were still locked when they got there, all the warding and alarms still in place, no sign of a struggle. Not so much as a broken plate. It's like he disappeared into thin air, and while that happens, all the tests for the things that usually do it came up negative._

 _I haven't been sleeping. It's starting to look like he's really gone._

 _\- Personal journal of Sam Winchester_

* * *

There was a beat of shocked silence after Castiel's impassioned revelation. Sam opened his mouth but wasn't sure why, since it wasn't like he knew what to say. Dean was the one who wound up breaking in before too long.

"Oh, he is, is he?" Dean's voice was flat, unimpressed, lead-heavy with skepticism. "And you're gonna help him. That's just _awesome_."

Sam glanced at Dean. His emotions were a bloody, confused, churned-up no man's land right now. He didn't know how to feel about Castiel. He was glad Dean was sticking up for him, sort of. And he also thought he might be upset about his possible ability to "save the world" being rejected right out of hand, which was stupid and bitchy and all kinds of full of himself, but there it was.

Sam didn't say anything. Dean looked at him, probably trying to puzzle him out, then returned his razor-studded attention to Castiel in the rearview mirror.

"Listen: he ain't doin' anything you want him to, or think he should. And neither am I." Dean spoke like he was laying down the law. "What we're _doing_ is finishing the Trials, if Sam wants to, and there's nothing you can do to stop us."

It was probably another bluff, but it had Sam's feelings evening out considerably.

"You got to say your piece, Feathers, just like I said I'd let you," Dean went on. "Now get the hell outta my car."

They'd still been creeping down the waterlogged road, but now Dean stopped. Engine idling patiently, he turned around in his seat to glare fiercely at Castiel, knuckles bone-yellow on the tape-bundled handle of his angel blade.

Castiel refused, which was more or less what Sam had expected. "I never agreed to leave after I was finished explaining the situation, demon, and I know your kind are bound by the letter of the law when it comes to deals."

Dean's face twitched. He wasn't a crossroads demon, not even close, so Sam's scientific curiosity, badly-timed as ever, had him wondering if that was true. If deals could bind him, especially informal ones.

"It's my mission to remain with Sam Winchester, and I am not going to abandon it." Castiel stated it as a fact.

"Right, yeah," Dean agreed, biting. "Us and our deals, you guys and your missions." He turned fully around in his seat and rested his blade on the back, where there was no way Castiel couldn't see it. "Let's see if I can find some other way to get you to fuck off, then."

"Dean." Keeping his voice low, Sam grabbed Dean's elbow in a near repeat of what'd happened at Kubrik's house. Dean was the one he didn't want getting hurt this time, but the nerves in his leg twanged like plucked guitar strings anyway.

Castiel stared Dean down, then told him, "Your authority may have been unquestioningly recognized in Hell, as a Knight, but I am not afraid of you, Dantalion."

"That so?" Dean asked coolly. At least he'd drawn the blade back a little at Sam's touch.

Like he was being belatedly pulled along with it, Castiel leaned forward some in his seat. He had to raise his gravelly voice to be heard over the cacophony of rain on top of the car, and near-rolling thunder.

"I was instructed to dispose of the demon the Messiah was consorting with, if those rumors were true."

"You can try." Dean sounded like he'd relish a fight.

"We were unaware of the mitigating circumstances," Castiel continued calmly. "Your apparent betrayal of Hell and Sam's extreme emotional attachment to you chief among them." He cast a cursory glance at Sam. "As of this exact moment, much as it pains me to say, I see no reason why the two of us should waste energy and risk damage in combat." Castiel coughed oddly. "I may end up regretting it later, demon, but I would like to propose a truce."

"A truce."

"An alliance that I sincerely hope will be mutually beneficial," Castiel agreed. "I will try to interfere in your relationship with the Messiah as little as possible, abomination though it may be."

The abomination comment touched the raw nerves of a decade-old wound inside Sam, despite the ambiguity. Because they were a gay couple? Because Dean was a demon? Dean shifted as if he were bothered, too, but for some reason neither of them said anything. Castiel was still talking.

"So long as I believe that you intend him no harm. And you will allow me to accompany the two of you and carry out my duties," Castiel finished.

"That's..." Sam was hesitant, mind a mess, still trying desperately to parse out the reality of the situation with fried reasoning skills. He was able to recognize that this was probably the best deal they'd get with an angel involved. "You get I'm not going anywhere or doing anything without him?"

He gestured to Dean with the hand he didn't still have on his arm, and Dean glanced at him. Even if Castiel thought their relationship was an abomination, Sam wanted to make it very clear that they were a package deal.

"Unfortunately, yes, it seems I have to accept that for now." Castiel sounded resigned.

"Fine, you can hang around if you absolutely gotta, but I don't want you talking to him." Dean spoke up, harsh. "You're not convincin' him to do whatever the hell it is Heaven wants him for, sacrificing himself or some shit. I know how this works. Whatever bein' a Messiah means, he's _not_ doin' it, and we're _not_ gettin' involved."

Castiel looked at Sam, who stared silently back. Dean could've phrased it better, but Sam got the feeling it'd be in his best interests to back him up on this much as he could; if nothing else, Dean had more experience with angels. Then Castiel looked back to Dean. "Are you certain it's your decision, Dantalion?"

"Dean," Dean corrected through gritted teeth.

"What?"

"My name's _Dean_."

"Okay." Sam cut in, something he got the feeling he was going to be doing a lot. "Listen. Let's just drop this whole thing for now, all right? We don't know what he wants me to do yet." He glanced at Castiel, who stared at some indeterminate point with ice-chip eyes. "But I _am_ finishing the Trials; Dean's right." Castiel didn't react. "You've got a truce. That's great, nice work. But let's get outta here before the road washes out." Sam looked out at the deluge outside the window. "Wouldn't put it past Kubrik to have called all the other hunters in the area, too, told them what happened...we might have people out looking for us."

"Think he was pretty busy having a heart attack," Dean commented dryly.

"Maybe, but you wanna take the risk?" Sam asked pointedly, then shook his head. "We can talk about it later. I just wanna get back to Texas."

"The beach house?" Something in Dean softened.

"Yeah." Sam smiled. "The beach house."

"I could fly - " Castiel began to offer.

 _"No."_

* * *

Predictably, the drive was extremely awkward.

Castiel didn't talk. Dean threw a Stones tape into the deck and dialed the music up loud enough to drown out the rain and fill the car. When it ended, he rewound it and started it again. "Satisfaction" rattled cheerily in Sam's teeth and ribs over and over.

He was exhausted, so tired he couldn't help falling asleep, and even if he hadn't been, his childhood had conditioned him to drift off to this type of music. Every time he went under, though, Dean's hand, resting frequently on his thigh, tightened to the point where it brought him back. Maybe he didn't want to be alone with Castiel, or didn't trust the angel not to pry his way into Sam's dreams. Because they could do that, right?

Sam honestly didn't mind being kept awake. Tension thrummed through him in time with the Stones' bass lines as he waited for another headache, another vision, another uncontrollable explosion of glass-cracking telekinesis. It'd be harder to see it coming if he was asleep.

The storm tapered off eventually, or maybe they just drove out of it. Dean pulled into a lonely gas station soon after they reached Texas. It must've rained here, too, and after so long in the darkness, the shine of the lights off wet pavement bit at Sam's eyes.

"Why are we stopping?" Castiel asked quietly.

"Welp." Dean cleared his throat as he pulled the keys free. "One of my babies needs gas, and the other one's gotta eat." He put an arm over the back of the seat, turning to look at Castiel so he could explain with exaggerated care. "See, cars need fuel to keep running, and if humans don't get food, they die."

"I know," Castiel replied tensely.

Sam, apparently sharing a rung with the car now on Dean's very short priority list, rolled his eyes.

He climbed out with Dean, into fresh, cold air heavy with clean moisture. Raindrops glittered on the Impala's black coat like an industrial mirror of the star-studded sky above, showing through gaps in the drifting clouds. As they walked towards the convenience store, there was a _flick_ , and Sam glanced at Dean to see his eyes were green again for the first time since Castiel showed up.

"Know it's, like, two in the morning, but you haven't had anything to eat since yesterday, and I know you gotta be needing something, especially after your..." Dean trailed off, gesturing to his head, and Sam realized he was talking about the psychic episode that'd nearly crashed the car. "Sorry, should've got you something sooner, and probably from an actual restaurant."

"It's fine." He was hungry, Sam realized. Everything else must've distracted him. "After all your home cooking these past few days, I'm feeling kinda spoiled." He smiled at Dean.

Dean smiled back. Then there was a flapping of wings behind them, which Sam had been pretty much waiting for, and Dean's eyes shifted back to black. They both turned to look at Castiel.

"It is my duty to accompany the Messiah," he stated mulishly, as if he were already expecting an argument.

"We're just goin' in so he can take a leak and grab some chow!" Dean exclaimed. "Jesus, I'm not gonna run off with him and leave the car, 'specially not with you...and seriously, man. You can't do that out where people can see."

"What?" Castiel cocked his head to the side.

" _Teleport._ " Wryly, Sam reflected on how many times he'd had this conversation with Dean himself. "Fly, whatever. Who knows what you're gonna bring down on us if the wrong person catches you?" Dean grimaced. "If you're gonna insist on tagging along like some kinda stray mutt, you gotta follow our rules for stayin' safe."

"I'll take that under advisement," Castiel said stiffly. He seemed cowed.

Sam glanced at Dean, about to suggest they go inside now, but after the conversation they'd just had, about passing for human and staying safe... "Dean. Your eyes."

"Fuck," Dean muttered under his breath. To Castiel, he asked, "You seriously gotta come with us?" When Castiel nodded, Dean went back to the car, swearing to himself the whole way. He returned with a pair of sunglasses that'd been originally bought for Sam, for summer target practice out in the desert. "Guess I gotta walk around in there lookin' like a douchebag, then."

As soon as they were inside the store, Sam took Dean's hand, squeezed to feel the calluses and scars and crushed knuckles. Dean looked at him from behind the sunglasses as he grabbed a basket.

They moved up and down the aisles. Sam was quietly enjoying being out of the car and stretching his legs, Dean was grabbing handfuls of snacks, candy, and energy drinks. He didn't eat, so he must think Sam needed all of it. Castiel followed them closely. Sam kept stealing glances at the only other person in the building, the teenage cashier, but it looked like he was asleep behind the counter.

Things were tense, but okay, until Dean stopped in front of the beer cooler and Castiel, only half a step behind, ran right into him. Dean dropped Sam's hand and whirled around, basket swinging out. Sam grabbed his elbow again but knew that, if Dean attacked Castiel, he'd have no hope of stopping the fight.

Where was the angel blade? Dean wasn't holding it, but Sam was pretty sure he hadn't left it in the car, either.

"How long're you plannin' on keeping this up?" Dean demanded as Castiel took a few grudging steps back. Dean was so obviously struggling to keep it together. "You gonna stay on his ass while we're showering? While we're screwing? While I'm blowing him?" He gestured to Sam.

Dean's voice, a snarl that made the tendons in his neck pop out, had grown steadily louder. Noticing the cashier'd woken up, Sam sucked in a deep breath.

"It's my duty - " Castiel began, stubbornly, but Dean cut him right off.

"I _know_! I fucking know all about your shitty duty, we both do, you've been here for about four hours and I'm already sick of your bullshit, and I'm just surprised it took that long." Dean paused for breath Sam knew he only needed to carry his words. "Why've you gotta stay so close? Huh? Why've you gotta keep an eye on us? You worried I'm gonna hurt Sam?"

He was leaning menacingly closer to Castiel, using the maybe two or three inches he had on the angel to their fullest potential. Castiel stared blankly up at him.

"You might not intend to," Castiel said neutrally. "I'll give you the benefit of that doubt, but it is in your nature. It's inevitable."

"The fuck it is!" Dean exploded. Sam tightened his grip on him and remembered all the conversations they'd had back at the cabin, before things got serious. Dean demonstrating how easily he could break his wrist, Dean stating in no uncertain terms he was a danger to Sam because of what he was.

Either he'd changed his mind or it rubbed him exactly the wrong way to hear it from Castiel. Sam could relate, given how he'd felt when Castiel told him he couldn't finish the Trials.

"Everything okay over there, fellas?" the cashier called. He'd stood up and had one hand out of sight, either on a silent alarm or the phone.

"Yeah, fine, sorry." Sam raised his free hand. "We'll be outta here soon." He took the basket, half-full of junk, from Dean, and looked at Castiel. "Look, I...appreciate the concern. I guess. But, seriously, you don't have to worry about Dean. I promise." Sam felt one side of his mouth lift in a smile. "I mean, he's the only reason I haven't died half a dozen times by now."

Castiel didn't really respond to that, so Sam just grabbed a couple breakfast burritos out of the freezer and headed over to the microwave. Dean followed him, taking hold of his hand again as he nuked the burritos, and of course Sam let him.

"Those have beans in 'em?" Dean asked quietly. He still sounded like the last nerve in his body was rapidly fraying, but also like he was trying to calm down.

"No." Sam flushed, recognizing where this was going.

"'Cause you know what they do to you."

"Yeah, _shut up_."

"Not my fault it's super gross. Almost as gross as the forty gallons of snot that came outta you while you were sick."

They checked out, Sam paying for the food and Dean for the gas. Their money wasn't exactly separate by now, but it was the principle of the thing.

The cashier stared at Dean the entire time, the blood and other bodily fluids on his shirt and face. He fumbled over the bills they handed him.

"Pretty sure he's gonna call the cops, so we oughta get outta here as fast as we can," Sam murmured to Dean as they returned to the car, Castiel following closely the whole time. Dean grunted.

"Yeah, just lemme fill 'er up, and then we'll burn rubber."

Dean went to pump the gas he'd bought, Sam started to climb into the passenger seat with his burritos and junk food. Castiel paused, as if he were going to fly again, then just got in the back. It took him a second to figure the handle out, and when he did, he seemed fascinated, playing with the one on the inside.

Dean tensed noticeably, and Sam caught his eye, still shielded by the sunglasses.

"You're right here, and I'm pretty sure he doesn't plan on hurting me," Sam said quietly.

"Just don't let him break my car," Dean muttered, closing the door on Sam once he was in.

It was quiet for a long time, just Dean pumping gas outside and Sam eating. He was almost finished with his first burrito (which wasn't great, truth be told, but he hadn't expected it to be) when Castiel spoke up.

"He doesn't feel love. He can't."

His voice was matter-of-fact. Sam turned around in his seat to look at him, chewing and not saying anything. After a moment, Castiel elaborated.

"I don't intend to cause any harm. As I said before, it's very clear to me how much you have invested in him, and I can admit there is...an attachment on Dantalion's end as well, but - "

"Dean." Sam interrupted after swallowing the sticky mess of soggy tortilla and flavorless egg in his mouth. "He hates the Knight name. I'm gonna need you to stop using it, okay?"

There was a long pause from Castiel, then an, "All right."

Sam faced forward, focusing on his second burrito, but he didn't really think the conversation was over. Sure enough, it wasn't long before Castiel started up again.

"Demons have lost the ability to feel many of the complex, soul-based emotions - "

"Not Dean." Sam interrupted again, starting to get irritated. "And why do you care so much, anyway? You said you weren't gonna mess with our relationship so long as he's not hurting me. Which he's not." He chewed and swallowed a bite of burrito before continuing. "He's not trying to get rid of you anymore, either. But he might if you keep this up."

"Because you are my charge, and part of my assignment includes ensuring your emotional well-being," Castiel replied quietly. "Regardless of what I said earlier, a relationship with a demon is hardly conducive to that."

Sam laughed humorlessly. "You don't know anything about us."

"I know enough."

"No, you _don't._ " Sam balled up the wrappers. "We...I'm happy with him. He says I make him feel human again. The _only_ reason I'm okay with letting you stay is because you said you wouldn't mess with him, with us." Sam wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "If you can't keep that promise, that's gonna change."

Castiel was silent as Dean got in the car, the gas tank apparently full.

"You okay?" Dean asked gruffly as he started the engine.

"Yeah. Just tired," Sam said with a sigh. "Can't wait to get to sleep."

Leather creaked and fabric rustled as Castiel leaned forward. Sam was initially confused about what he was doing. When he realized he was honest-to-god _sniffing_ him, he turned around again, weirded out.

"It would appear you have a lingering upper respiratory infection," Castiel stated, sitting back with no indication he knew he'd done something wrong. "I'll watch over you while you sleep."

"The hell you will," Dean said immediately.

"Uh, no." Sam cleared his throat. "Thanks, but Dean'll be with me. It's fine."

"How many times've we gotta tell you we aren't going anywhere without each other before you get it?" They were on the road proper now, gas station fading fast in the rearview mirror. Sam could also see Castiel in it, glancing back and forth between the two of them.

"I just can't fully grasp why you cling so desperately to him," he said eventually to Sam, tone rather exasperated. "You aren't even soulmates."

"So that's a thing, huh?" Didn't sound like Dean was buying it.

"It is, actually." Cracking open a Red Bull pulled out of the bulging bag between his feet, Sam felt himself slip right into researcher mode, helped along by exhaustion and stress. "It's a preordainment thing. Some people have the names of others written on their hearts in Enochian, and cherubs - which're a type of angel - kind of...engineer a meeting between them, and activate the attraction."

"Not 'some,'" Castiel corrected, "all." Dean ignored him in favor of staring at Sam. He'd taken the sunglasses off eyes that were, of course, black.

"How in the hell d'you know that?" he asked him.

"There was a case," Sam started defensively. "I was working support. We thought it was a witch with love spells, but it turned out - "

"Yeah, okay, I don't care." Sam shook his head and sipped his Red Bull, grimacing at the cough-syrup taste. He should've gotten coffee. "So I imagine what you're tryin' to say here is that we don't belong together and we ain't good for each other." Dean had his attention back on Castiel. "If we aren't soulmates, then who were we 'destined' to wind up with?"

Castiel hesitated. "It isn't my place to say."

"Course not," Dean agreed sarcastically, snorting.

"Why would you care, as a demon?" Castiel asked, a slight challenge in his voice. "Why do you even pretend to care so much for Sam?"

A long silence ticked itself out, punctuated by a slow exhale from Dean's nose and the hum of rubber on asphalt beneath them. Sam glared at Castiel. There was no way he'd forgotten the conversation they'd just had. Problem was Sam had no idea how to make him leave for going back on his word.

"Y'know, this is your whole problem." Dean's frustration oozed off every word, and Sam recognized the beginning of a rant. "You and every angel who's ever flapped down here. All you birdbrains are just so goddamn _clueless_. You don't know a thing about Earth, about people, about fuck-all." Dean kept one hand on the wheel, but the other was gesturing wildly in the air as he talked. One knee was pressing hard into Sam's, and Sam could feel him shaking, smoke thrumming in his meat. "You act like you're an expert and you know the whole story, exactly what's goin' on with us - " He indicated himself and Sam. " - but you don't. You don't know squat about him, and you _definitely_ don't know _anything_ about me."

"I know plenty," Castiel said quietly, and Dean snorted again.

"If you _did_ , you wouldn't have to ask why I'm with Sam," he snapped. "You don't know anything. Face it."

Another long silence. This one was broken by Castiel saying, "I know your father's alive."

The car came to a stop. Dean didn't slam on the brakes nearly as hard as he had back in the field, but Sam still had to clap a hand over the top of his can to keep it from going everywhere.

Swearing softly, palm sticky, Sam's brain took a second to catch all the way up and process exactly what Castiel'd just said. Dean, though, already got it, going off the way he'd twisted around fully to stare at Castiel in the back. Sam joined him after wiping his hand on his jeans, since nothing else was available.

"Wait, you mean Bobby? But he's..." Sam trailed off. Bobby Singer disappeared. There was never a body. And that very first vision he'd had...

"You're gonna wanna choose your next words real carefully," Dean advised Castiel, quiet. There was the angel blade now, back in his hand.

"I don't know where he is," Castiel began, "but I know that Robert Singer is alive, and that you believe him dead." He paused. "I apologize. It's an unnecessary detail, I shouldn't have shared it."

"Unnecessary?" Dean repeated, disbelieving.

A truck sped by them then, horn blaring. It wasn't hard to see why, with them being stopped in the middle of the road and all. They were just lucky it wasn't the police. Castiel's attention snapped straight to it like a cocker spaniel with a tennis ball, and Sam tried to force him back into the conversation.

"Can you tell us anything else?" he asked. Castiel glanced at him, hesitated, then shook his head. He honestly looked regretful.

Sam looked at Dean, who seemed ready to blow up at Castiel all over again. Then, though, the black eyes flicked over to Sam, and he just...didn't. Turned back around, shook his head, swore, got going again. Sam didn't want to think about how bad he must look for Dean to make that decision. Probably about like he felt, which was pretty crappy.

He was the sort of tired it could take weeks of good sleep to shake for good, an aching fatigue sunk into him down to the marrow. He had no trouble keeping his eyes open the rest of the way back to Surfside Beach, though. Between the caffeine and the stress, he wondered if he'd even be able to sleep when they reached the cottage.

No one spoke for the rest of the drive. Dean didn't even turn the music back on.

Dawn had broken by the time Dean rented the beach house again, gray and very cold for the Gulf. Sam waited in the car with Castiel, almost managed to catch the keys when Dean tossed them at him. Fortunately, they just fell in his lap.

"Owners're real confused about why we keep renting the place, but they're not gonna stop taking our money." Dean said it flatly, no humor in his voice.

Sam grunted. Even if the owners'd been reluctant, he might've been okay with Dean putting a little pressure on them. They knew it was safe here, and besides them, it was completely deserted. He also just liked it. In a way he hadn't liked any other place since his cabin.

Dean bundled Sam into the house, his duffel slung over one shoulder and Sam's backpack on the other. They were so close Sam felt more than heard him growl when Castiel followed them in, but he didn't care. He was too preoccupied by the powerful feeling of "almost home" that washed over him as soon as he was through the door, surrounded by familiar decor and the smell of the ocean.

Dean followed Sam up the stairs to the bedroom, handed him his backpack, and then turned right around just in time to stop Castiel dead in the doorway. Sam paused, watching the exchange.

"No." Dean's voice was sub-zero steel. "You stay out there."

"I won't," Castiel returned stubbornly.

"He's not going anywhere with me, just...do what he says," Sam told Castiel loudly, dropping his backpack on the floor so he could rummage toothpaste out of it.

Castiel might as well have been carved from stone, for all the reaction he gave. Dean slammed the door in his face, despite it not really being heavy enough to "slam," and locked it. Which seemed petty and useless, but Sam could understand the sentiment. Then Dean dug a baggie of mostly-broken and very colorful chalk out of his bag and started scrawling pale red on the walls. It took Sam's fatigue-shot brain longer than it should've to recognize Enochian angel warding. He'd never seen it so comprehensive; drawn from memory, too. Impressive.

"Sure he's gonna let you do that?" He found his toothbrush and toothpaste.

"He fuckin' better," Dean muttered darkly.

Sam stripped down to his boxer briefs, folding the clothes neatly into the "dirty" section of his pack, then wandered into the bathroom on bare, aching feet. He brushed thoroughly, desperate to get rid of the taste of Red Bull, gas station burritos, and what'd happened with Kubrik and his family. When he was done, he splashed cold water onto his face and looked at himself in the driftwood-and-seashell-framed mirror.

He grimaced, because he looked like hell. That wasn't exactly a surprise. Cheekbones jutting just a little unhealthily under paler-than-usual skin, dark circles dug in deep under dull eyes, lips so chapped they were on the verge of cracking. Dean hadn't been making him drink. They'd both been a little preoccupied.

At least his hair looked okay. That was one benefit of having it so short: it didn't get dirty nearly as fast.

Dean had tossed sweats and a tee onto the bed for Sam. His eyes were once again green. They were flat, though, too bright. He was standing by one of the windows, and something in the curve of his spine, the hang of his hips and shoulders, reminded Sam of the way he'd sat in the demon cell while they'd been waiting for Gordon to arrive. The fact that the room was spackled in a rainbow of chalky Enochian didn't seem to be making him feel better.

He looked at Sam when he came out, and Sam swore he heard the muscles in his neck creak as his head turned.

"You go ahead and get comfy, I'm gonna go wash up some," Dean said, pointing at the gunk on his face. It was starting to flake off. "You need anything else?"

"Yeah." As Dean passed him on his way to the bathroom, Sam caught him by the arm, hooking the thumb of his other hand under his waistband so his boxers fell soft around his feet. Dean let Sam turn him so they were facing each other and then kiss him. Sam tasted the usual sulfur on his lips; recently, that alone was enough to get him going. At least a sulfur fetish wasn't the weirdest thing about their relationship.

It took a second for Dean to respond to the kiss, but when he did, he pretty much melted into it. When they pulled apart, he didn't ask Sam if he was sure or anything. He must've been able to feel his need. Convenient.

"You're just horny all the goddamn time now, aren'tcha?" Dean shrugged the flannel off, pulled his T-shirt over his head. Teleporting out of his clothes must be beyond him at the moment.

"Hardly." Weird as it was, Sam honestly wasn't too aroused right now. Just enough to give him a cursory erection. He wanted something besides release after the night he'd had, and it was a strange craving, one he didn't think he'd ever had so strongly before. He needed affirmation, connection. To feel human. He imagined Dean did, too. Sam was desperate to drain some of that bone-hard tension out of him.

The sex was slow, languid, Sam on his back and Dean over him, taking his time about working him open and pushing into him. The physical pleasure was kind of muted for Sam, which was a first in sex with Dean, but there was something undeniably soothing about the rhythm and the skin-on-skin contact. Felt like his soul was covered in rug burns after last night. This was a thick layer of chilled Vaseline.

Staring up at Dean, the landmarks of his face, his full pouty mouth and freckles and long gold-fringed eyelashes, Sam realized they'd never done it from the back. No matter who was bottoming, they were always face-to-face. There was probably a rich psychological analysis in that, but he was way too tired right now to take a crack at puzzling it out.

Sam'd been convinced since childhood that sunlight over the sea was different. Cleaner, brighter, bluer. The shutters were closed probably as tightly as Dean had been able to get them, but winter-warm slats of ocean light poured in anyway. Sam could see every detail in Dean. The strange little creases under his eyes, the antler-shaped dip and curve of his collarbone, the downy tuft of honey-colored hair between his pecs. Something in Sam ached that he hadn't been able to see Dean change as he moved through his twenties. The jaw firm up, the crow's feet blossom. Something else ached even harder at the realization there'd never be another change.

"Hell're you lookin' at me like that for?" It was a throaty whisper as Dean pumped back and forth inside Sam.

"I'm not gonna leave you." Sam gripped Dean's impressive biceps, hard, with both hands. "I'm not gonna let you leave me. Whole garrison of angels couldn't do it."

"I know, baby boy." Dean grabbed Sam's arms right back, dropped himself so he could nuzzle Sam's neck, dusting the sensitive skin with kisses. "Not goin' anywhere, either of us. Not without the other."

That was a good note to finish on. Afterwards, Sam lay there with Dean next to him, panting softly even though he hadn't done hardly any of the work. They'd been quiet, way quieter than they usually were. But Castiel had probably heard them anyway. Sam couldn't decide if the idea of an angel listening to him have sex was hilarious, hot, or humiliating. Maybe all three.

As if he'd read his mind, Dean rumbled, "Wonder how much it ruffled his feathers, listening to us go at it."

Sam laughed a little at that. "Surprised he didn't try to get in and interrupt, even with all the warding."

"Maybe he did. Maybe it worked."

Sam started getting cold soon after, so they had to get up. The two of them cleaned off with washcloths in the bathroom. Sam knew he probably needed a bath or a shower, and so did Dean, but he needed sleep more. He pulled on the shirt and sweatpants, and Dean dressed in clean boxers and a tee of his own before hopping into bed.

Sam took a second to join him, digging Vaughn's ashes out of his backpack and putting the box on his nightstand. He stood there for a second, looking down at them. Remembering the vision.

When he finally got under the covers, Dean sighed dramatically and said, "Guess you're gonna want me to cuddle you now, huh?"

"Up to you." Settling into the mattress, Sam shot a glance over his shoulder, cocking an eyebrow. "Baby boy."

Dean grunted. "Whatever. Better than Dandelion."

He little-spooned Sam. Arm folded tight around him, chest to back, knees tucked into the hollow's of Sam's. Hopefully he'd stay like that even after Sam fell asleep.

He was trying to, but he couldn't take his eyes off the box. Finally, he just had to come right out and say what was on his mind: "I wanna try and find Bobby."

Dean didn't say anything for a long time, and neither did Sam, not even going to try and fool himself into thinking Dean hadn't heard him. Maybe he was trying to wait him out. With how heavy Sam's eyelids were getting, he might have a shot.

"Yeah. Me, too," Dean muttered into one of the fatally-short spots he'd chopped into the hair on the back of Sam's head. "I guess. Owe him that much, at least." He sighed, his breath brimstone-hot. "'Sides. We need something to keep us busy while you're takin' a break from the Trials...and god knows I need a distraction from Mr. Halo-Up-His-Ass out there."


	19. Chapter 19

_For once a Knight of Hell has been carved from a Human Soul and drawn through the Eye of Our Great Dark King Lucifer by the First Blade and its Marked wielder, Bloody Cain, it shall be Bestowed upon an Alabaster Lord or Golden Prince of Hell. The Knight shall swear Fealty and the Master shall claim Ownership from now until the Banking of the Last Fire in Hell._

 _The Knight shall serve the Master and Hell above All Else. The Master shall ensure Loyalty and maintain control of the Savage Knight. The Knight's joy is to kill, to raze, and firstly to Obey._

 _Should the Master ask, the Knight shall answer._

 _Should the Master call, the Knight shall come._

 _Should the Master fall into Peril, the Knight shall defend._

 _And should the Knight fail, or swear Fealty to Another, or Disobey, the Master shall Punish as the Master sees fit._

 _\- Sacred texts of Hell, excerpt from section concerning Knights (translated from Bastard Enochian)_

* * *

Despite everything, Sam was in a pretty good mood this morning.

His laptop was open on the beach house's kitchen table, a cheap printer set up next to it and both surrounded by a sea of highlighted, annotated articles from around 2004. A net and some driftwood had been pulled down off the wall and piled on the overstuffed couch to make room for a classic investigation board, pictures, pages, and maps pinned up on powder-blue paint and connected by red yarn. Gloriously barefoot in jeans and a T-shirt, Sam roamed around the first floor with a composition book full of messy notes.

This place was homey, isolated, and it'd reminded Sam of his cabin while he was sick. It'd never felt more like it than it did now, though.

He had a hastily drawn up and rapidly-changing list of things he wanted to accomplish, and one of them was calling Ellen. It was a Saturday, but it wasn't like the schedule was a law of magic or anything. Sam brought up her contact in his phone and dialed, too...not exactly _happy_ , but energized, at least, to care that she was probably going to gripe at him.

"You know it ain't quite Monday yet, right?" That was how Ellen answered on the third ring.

"Uh, yeah." Sam smiled a little. "I know I'm early. But..."

He glanced out the picture window at Castiel. The angel was on the wraparound porch, staring out at the gray, foam-studded ocean, where he'd been since Sam and Dean came downstairs this morning. He wouldn't look at or talk to them beyond a very brief conversation where he grudgingly allowed the bedroom to stay covered in Enochian, but threatened them with his garrison again if they tried to put glyphs anywhere else.

Castiel had definitely heard the two of them having sex. Maybe that was why he was okay with the bedroom being warded: so he wouldn't accidentally walk in on them.

"A lot's changed since the last time we talked," Sam finished.

"I'll say," Ellen agreed. "Was just thinking about calling you, actually."

"Really?" There was no way news of Castiel had reached her yet, or Bobby. Or the whole...Messiah thing. "What - what've you heard?"

"You remember Ed Kubrik? Gordon's friend?" Ellen amended, "Course you do. He's been on the horn all morning, telling us all you and your demon showed up to murder his whole family, Thursday night."

Sam was silent for a second, then closed his eyes and exhaled heavy through his nose as he pressed his lips together. Right. That'd happened, too.

"I was hoping he was lying through his teeth like usual, but sounds like you were actually there," Ellen said dryly. "I'm gonna assume you didn't really try and kill him?"

"Is he okay?" Sam couldn't believe he was even asking.

"He's in the hospital. Heart attack, I heard, and he's saying your Knight caused it."

"Okay, he _didn't_. I _guess_ he had a hold of him at one point, but Kubrik was saying he was gonna shoot us..." Realizing this wasn't helping, Sam trailed off. "Look. They were in trouble, bunch of other demons coming after them. Kubrik's a hunter and Hell's been targeting us. We _saved_ him and his family, and it was one of those other demons strangling him that gave him a heart attack. Not Dean."

"Kubrik said you two came with the other demons."

 _"No."_ Sam paused. "I guess it might've looked that way. We did get there around the same time. But we weren't working with them and, Ellen, you gotta know that."

"Sam, I'm not gonna lie, this looks really bad," Ellen told him with a sigh. "Maybe not quite as bad as what happened with Gordon, but close enough. I know you weren't working with the demons. But just how'd you know the guy who might hate you more'n anybody else...and there're a lotta people out there who hate you right now, lemme tell you...was gonna need help? You intercept a letter or something?"

There was a long second where Sam fought with himself over whether or not to tell Ellen about any of it. He stared down at his bare feet, huge since high school, on wooden floorboards that'd been warped by salt despite numerous signs begging guests to wash it all off before coming in. Ultimately, he decided he'd kept everyone out of the loop for too long already, before.

"No. No. So...Ellen, it's a really long story, and I'm still in the dark on most of it, too, but I'm kind of." Sam stopped to swig coffee dregs out of a mug he had perched haphazardly among the fans of paper on the table. He was running on five cups to try and cancel out his screwed-up sleep schedule. The cottage had an honest-to-god coffeemaker, and Dean had done that thing with vanilla and cinnamon in the grounds. "A little bit psychic. Maybe."

For a while, Ellen didn't say anything. Sam could all but hear her blinking five or six long times as she processed, slow and deliberate. Then: "What?"

"I told you, long story," Sam said apologetically. "I don't get it, either. But I'm seeing the future, off and on. And...that's how I knew about the attack on Kubrik."

"Oh, Jesus Christ, Sam," Ellen said heavily. Sam pictured her rubbing her face, sagging against the nearest wall. "Are you trying to put me in the hospital with that asshole?"

"I'm sorry." Sam winced. Funny, though, that she should mention Jesus.

On the other end of the line, someone started talking to Ellen. Sam couldn't make out what they were saying, but it sounded like Jo...which was impossible, there was no way she'd be home unless Ellen had gone out and dragged her back. Ellen's voice quieted like she'd taken the phone away from her mouth.

"Sam," she told whoever the other person was. "Apparently his demon didn't knock Kubrik's heart out, and he's psychic now. Seeing the future."

Loud exclamations led into a casual-sounding conversation. Sam had to strain to make out even half of Ellen's side. The conversation ratcheted suddenly up into yelling, and then a door slammed distantly. Sam stood next to a window that didn't look directly out onto Castiel's trench-coated back, awkward, and stared down the beach. The sky was dull and the sand was packed wet and hard, no footprints but dotted with half-buried garbage. Over by one of the other houses, a seagull was picking at something dead and unidentifiable as Sam waited for Ellen to come back.

She did, eventually. "Jo wants me to congratulate you." A door closed again, but much more quietly. "She's also throwin' a fit about how all the interesting stuff only ever happens to you, and didn't like it when I pointed out it's only 'cause you've been acting like a complete moron this past year."

"So she's...actually back home?" Sam frowned at the insult but didn't say anything. He probably deserved it.

"We talking about her?" Ellen demanded, pretty harshly. She must've heard it, too, because her voice mellowed as she asked, "You have any idea why this is happening to you?"

"Uh, couple theories." Sam glanced at Castiel again, standing on the weathered porch and its tiny sand dunes in his dress shoes. With angels involved, it couldn't be a good idea to mention the Messiah situation to everyone he knew. He'd literally just had a heart-to-heart with himself about how much he hated holding information back from his family, but this was different. He didn't want to put Ellen in any more danger than she was in already just from knowing him. "But nothing I can prove yet."

"At any rate, I'm not gonna be sharing this with all the people who think you're the Antichrist." Ellen sounded grim, resigned. "You at least over your flu? Sound better."

"Oh. Yeah," Sam assured her. "Ages ago."

Ellen made what could've been a pleased noise. "So you just call to tell me how much more complicated your life's gotten, or what?"

Sam made a face, but he supposed he could understand why she'd say that. Psychics didn't exactly lead charmed lives, not exactly a monster but not considered fully human by most hunters, either. Then there was the potential for their abilities to drive them insane, the possibility rising as they got more powerful.

Thinking about how the visions and the telekinesis had felt, unease crawled long-fingered up Sam's spine. He could understand losing your mind.

"I'm calling everybody," he told Ellen. "Everybody who's still talking to me, at least. But you're the first, 'cause...well, you deserve to be. And 'cause I think you're most likely to know the guy I wanna ask about."

Ellen let out a bleak little laugh after a beat of quiet. "Feels almost normal, you calling 'cause you want something." Sam swallowed. "This isn't gonna be another Dean Singer situation, is it?"

"No." Sam frowned again. "I mean, I sure hope not." He cleared his throat. "Can you tell me about Rufus Turner?"

"Bobby Singer's hunting partner?" Ellen was surprised.

"Yeah! Dean said he was closer to Bobby than almost anybody else, back in the day." So she did know him. Awesome. "Dean knew him, but I never met him. A-and I'm really hoping you'll be able to tell us where he is."

"Dean there?" Ellen asked without much inflection, though Sam couldn't imagine why she'd want to talk to him.

"No. He's...we rented a place, same one we were staying in while I was sick, and he's up in the bedroom." Sam glanced reflexively up at the exposed beams. Muffled Zeppelin thudded softly down from the little boombox he'd picked out when he got his printer, lucky enough to find one that had a tape deck. Dean seemed to like it as much as he did his handheld tape player. "I think he...might be taking a break from me." Sighing, Sam rubbed at his face. "I asked him to remember kind of a lot today."

He'd done his best to be careful, pressing Dean for information about Bobby earlier. To tread lightly on ground he knew was jagged and rotten. Dean said it was okay, but Sam could see it wearing on him in the way his vessel looked more hollow with every question. After he gave up Rufus's name, when he retreated to their angel-proofed room, Sam let him go.

"He takes good care of you," Ellen said, serious and surprisingly gentle. "Make sure you return the favor."

"I'm trying." Dean seemed to usually fall somewhere between "bad habit" and "sleazy babysitter" for Ellen, so this took Sam aback.

"So why're you looking for Rufus?" Ellen asked, changing the subject a little awkwardly.

"Well, much as I'd like to be gearing up for the Second Trial, I need to take a break until I've got this psychic thing under control," Sam explained. "Not really safe for me to hunt, either, so. We're looking for somebody."

"Who?"

Sam took a deep breath. "I'm pretty sure Bobby's still alive."

It was a second before Ellen responded to that. "Sam, I know better than anyone why you'd wanna think that, but..." Tone careful, she hesitated. "He's been gone an awful long time, and we all _looked_ \- "

"No, no. No," Sam interrupted. "I don't _think_ , someone told me. A..." He tossed a third glance at Castiel. "What I hope is a reliable source. But it's worth checking out, don't you think? And Rufus'd be the guy most likely to know where Bobby is, or if he's even alive at all." Sam stopped, looked at the basic magic ingredients he'd blanketed the counter with. "I already tried a couple location spells and they fizzled, so. Please tell me he's not dead."

"Can't say that surprises me. Rufus was a big fan of his privacy even back when he was hunting; stayed off the grid as much as possible, didn't have much to do with anybody 'sides Bobby. And Dean, but I'm pretty sure that boy drove him up the wall." Wryly, Ellen added, "Y'know, like he did pretty much everybody."

"I'm gonna tell him you said that," Sam responded with a chuckle. Probably not today, though.

"Anyway. Far as I know, Rufus is still alive, but he's retired." That sent Sam's eyebrows up. "Retirement" didn't exactly feature heavily in the day-to-day hunter vocabulary. "Has been since we...lost Bobby." Ellen hesitated at the last couple words. "I'm real sorry, but I couldn't tell you where he is."

Sam sighed. "Worth a shot. Thanks anyway...must be someplace heavily warded." Pacing, Sam stopped in front of one of the maps he had up on the wall, still useless for now.

"You're welcome, but. Sam. Why're you looking for Bobby?"

Sam understood the question, just not why Ellen would ask it. "What d'you mean?"

"If he's not dead, he left." Sam didn't hear this voice from Ellen often, quiet and cautious, like him asking Dean about his dad. It was every bit as professional as Sam's "careful interrogation" voice: Ellen was, after all, a bartender. "Had to've been for a reason. He might not wanna be found, by you or anybody else." A pause, then she got even more tentative. "And lemme just be blunt. D'you think bringing his dead demon son to his door's a good idea?"

For a little while, Sam wasn't quite sure how to explain why finding Bobby was so important to him. Not because he didn't know, just because it was too big to put immediately into words. He'd killed the wendigo that'd orphaned and maimed Sam, gave him the cabin, showed him how to keep pulling his weight in the community when he was feeling his most useless. And then there'd been ten thousand other tiny kindnesses stretching back across his childhood, Bobby giving him books that had nothing to do with monsters or magic, assuring him he was a good hunter no matter what his dad said, saying he wasn't selfish for not wanting to bury himself in this life when he was a teenager. That college and a normal career were an option. He hadn't picked it, had owed too many people too many things to walk (limp) away, but Bobby'd made sure he knew it was always on the table.

Sam had needed that, when he was sixteen. It might've kept him alive.

"He's family, for me and Dean both," Sam started eventually. "And...no matter what Dean is, don't you think he'd wanna know he's alive?" He made a split-second decision to try something risky. "If it were Jo. Wouldn't you wanna know?"

There was a long sigh from Ellen, out of her nose rather than her mouth. Sam went on.

"Plus, he might not've left," Sam pointed out. Just thinking about it made his voice go soft. "Somebody might've taken him. And if Hell has him, we should've gotten him out years ago."

"I get it," Ellen said quietly.

"There's a lot going on right now." Sam swallowed again. "More than just the Trials, and everything with the demons. Family aside, we both know Bobby's the best researcher we ever had. Way better than me." It didn't even smart to admit that. "He was a walking lore library, and...if he's still around, I-I could really use his input. And his advice."

"Well, then." Ellen coughed. "You've convinced me: I hope you find him. Lemme know if I can do anything to help." Nails tapped on a hard surface, states away. "And I'd sure appreciate you keeping us updated, I definitely wouldn't mind seeing the old cuss again."

"Yeah. Of course." Sam licked his lips then, even though Ellen had shut him down hard once before, tried bringing personal life up again. "How...how've you been?"

"Jo wrapped up her hunt and came home on her own." Ellen surprised him by actually answering. "Brought Garth with her."

"Ellen, I _really_ need to know you didn't shoot him."

Ellen snorted. "I wish. Made it damn clear he's not welcome around here anymore...and I wound up not grounding Jo, either. Yet." More tapping, and Sam realized it probably wasn't nails: sounded more like cigarettes. "Still feel like it might be a good idea, but we'd have to talk about what happened for me to ground her, and we haven't done that yet, either."

"Are you smoking again?" Sam asked, frowning.

"No." The tapping stopped. "But that's another 'not yet' thing, I feel like."

"Don't you..." Sam dragged his free hand back through his infuriatingly-short hair. He was slowly getting used to the length. "Remember how happy you were when you quit?"

"'Course I do," Ellen replied. "But I'm under a lotta stress right now, as I'm sure you can imagine, and some days, there just ain't enough whiskey in the world." There was a grim smile in her voice as she went on. "And I'd love to have you lecture me on risky life choices, Sam, but I can think of much better ways to spend my Saturday than being crushed under ten tons of irony."

Sam closed his eyes and pursed his lips, face hot.

"I hate to admit it," Ellen said after a little bit. "But Jo was glowing when she walked in the door, just lit right up. Hadn't showered in three days and she was grinning from ear to ear. Right then, she looked just _exactly_ like Bill, like he used to when he came home." Ellen stopped. "She's not gonna be a full-fledged hunter. I'm not gonna let that happen. And you are never, _ever_ gonna tell her this, Sam, but I think. This might be what she's...supposed to do."

Sam felt his mouth open slightly.

"It's in her blood," Ellen continued, and he practically heard her shrug, resigned. "Could say the same thing about you. I think I've made myself perfectly clear, that I don't exactly approve of you being back on the road, or hunting with Dean. But I'll admit I haven't heard you sound so much like yourself in years."

"Thank you," Sam said quietly as he lowered himself into a kitchen chair, slow.

"You're where you've gotta be," Ellen told him. "I hate it, but that doesn't matter. Keep on doing what you're doing."

"Okay, but...I don't wanna make it even harder on you guys by doing that." The Roadhouse loomed large and painful in Sam's mind. "If someone like Kubrik's talking about me, I don't mind you or anybody else hopping in on the bashing to stay safe. Actually, maybe that oughta just be your go-to policy."

"You know I'm always glad for permission to talk about how awful you are," Ellen said, sarcastic enough to give Dean a run for his money, "and I'll pass on that you're okay with that, but I don't plan on doing it myself. Why don't you give some thought to letting people who don't want or deserve your help die?"

Sam smiled a little. The expression felt cold on his face. "I can't do that."

"There you go," Ellen said. It sounded like a goodbye, so Sam asked her, "Hey, can I talk to Ash real quick? I've got a couple favors I'd like to ask him."

Sam was just wrapping up the conversation with Ash, promising to e-mail him pictures of Bobby and financial information (Ash was excited about the challenge of re-running facial recognition scans on an internet that'd changed drastically since Bobby went missing), when the music shut off and Dean came down the stairs.

"Whoa," he commented, catching sight of the wall and then turning to Sam. "When you said we were gonna try and find Bobby, I didn't know you were gonna go full Columbo." He tried to strum one of the pieces of yarn, but it didn't exactly work.

Sam quickly signed off with Ash and set the phone down, ear aching from being pressed against it so long. "It's how my dad taught me to do it." He gave Dean his full attention. "So, Ellen doesn't know where Rufus is. Says he's retired."

"Lucky bastard." Clomping slowly around the cabin in his boots, Dean examined everything Sam had lying out. "We're for sure lookin' for him, then?" He got to the window that faced the porch and sarcastically remarked, "Guess your guardian angel's still on his perch."

Castiel, who had to have heard that even outside, didn't react. Sam chose not to, either.

"You hunted with Rufus," Sam began. Remembering what Ellen had said, he added, "I'm really sorry to do this to you. But d'you remember him ever saying anything? About where he'd wanna go once he was outta the life, or any safehouses, or - "

"Look." Dean cut him off, raising both hands. "I want this every bit as much as you do, you know that. And I'm behind you a hundred percent. I wanna help. But I really need to get outta the house for a bit. This whole situation's really wearing on me." He shot Castiel's back a dirty look.

"Yeah, you described it as, uh, 'fucktastic.'" As soon as Sam had woken up, actually.

"And I stand by that." Dean jabbed a finger at Sam. "I didn't even know demons could get stressed before Gordon dumped me on you, so. Thanks for that." He took a couple steps towards the front door. "Just gonna go on a walk. Be back soon."

"Okay." Blowing out a long breath, Sam turned to his laptop, went to Google. His inbox was, of course, bursting at the seams with vitriol and vulgarity. Fuck it: he got started making a new account.

"Not even gonna ask if you're coming with me." The door handle _click_ ed as Dean leaned on it. "You wanna keep hitting the books, I know, and it's windy out there."

"I can come," Sam said automatically, thinking how great a run or even a walk, like Dean wanted, would feel. He remembered the task at hand, though, with all the force of a train derailment before he even stood up. The coffee wasn't doing him any favors. Or maybe he needed another cup. "Or...no, wait. Better stay here."

Dean nodded with a weary finality. "Want me to help you move up to the bedroom before I go?"

"Uh, why would I move up to the bedroom?"

In answer, Dean jerked his head at Castiel, who actually glanced over his shoulder this time. His eyes were the brightest blue out there.

Sam laughed, just barely. "Dean, I'll be fine. He's not gonna hurt me. And if he tries..." He lifted a stack of _Argus Leader_ obits to expose their second angel blade, retrieved very recently from the trunk. "I've got this."

"I know, but." Dean shoved his hands into his pockets. "I don't wanna leave you alone with him."

"And I don't wanna hump twenty pounds of paper up the stairs." Sam dropped the stack, gesturing.

"Oh, you need all of it, do you?" Dean raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah." Sam raised his right back. "I do." He got up and walked into the mudroom, where the shower was, and grabbed Dean's jacket he knew he didn't actually need. Had to keep up appearances, never knew who might be watching. "Go ahead and go, dude. I'm a big boy, I'll be fine. I'll call you if I need anything." He offered the coat to Dean. "You've gotta have a break, it's fine. And it's okay to say you need to get away from me." Good thing he wasn't going.

Dean studied him for a second, blinked his eyes to black and back again in quick succession. Then he took the coat, shrugging into it with a _shuff_ of stiff fabric.

"All right, honey," he agreed. "See you at dinnertime." Sam snorted softly, and Dean grabbed the back of his head and planted an obnoxiously-loud kiss right on his hairline. Sam didn't want to admit it felt good, but knew Dean would pick up on it without him saying a word. Dean started off, but hesitated again with the door ( _not_ the one that led out to Castiel) partway open, salty wind shrieking at the frame. "Sure you're good?"

"Yeah." Sam declined to add he knew Dean wasn't. "Go on, man. Smash some rocks. Set some driftwood on fire."

"Kill a seagull," Dean supplied.

"Yeah, don't...actually do that."

"Sure do feel like ripping the wings off something, though." With one last glower at Castiel, Dean stepped out. He yelled, "Don't worry, won't do anything that'd bruise your bleeding heart!" before slamming the door behind him.

Sam brought his laptop over to the window, and watched Dean mosey down the beach on his slightly-bowed legs. There was a tautness to him, like hooks had been sunk into his head and ankles and winches had been cranked as far as they'd go; it'd been with him since Castiel appeared, only a little slack showing up during sex or while they were safe in the bedroom, and Sam bothering him about his dad had brought him back up to maximum tension. Putting together what he needed to send Ash, name in the subject line so he'd know this was his new address, Sam hoped getting away from it all for a while would help Dean start digging the hooks out. And he couldn't shake the absurd feeling of sending his husband off to war.

It was less than a second after a dune down at the end of the beach hid Dean from sight that the breezy rustling of feathers filled the cottage. Sam jumped, then immediately regretted the reaction. He was used to Dean teleporting, but not Castiel. And Castiel made noise when he did it.

"Get tired of the view?" Sam asked, clearing his throat. Dean was gone, so he moved back to the kitchen table. Castiel, standing in the middle of the floor and smelling strongly of the cold ocean, didn't even acknowledge him until he was sitting down again.

"I'm pleased you've taken my advice." After hours of not hearing it, the angel's gravelly voice was almost a shock. Sam glanced at him, confused, and Castiel elaborated, though he didn't look at him. His gaze was on Sam's investigation board. "You aren't pursuing the Second Trial. A very wise decision."

"Oh. Yeah, that's not..." Sam paused, awkwardly, and sent the e-mail to Ash. "It's not because of what you said. Sorry. Dean brought up taking a step back before we ever. Uh. Ran into you, and I don't really _want_ to, but he has a point." He clicked around. Time to hack some small local banks and police departments; he'd leave the international chains and FBI to Ash. "Not sure how comfortable I feel breaking a soul outta Hell when a vision could drop me any minute."

"You intend to continue," Castiel stated flatly.

"I _intend_ to close the Gates of Hell." Sam struggled to keep his tone neutral. Castiel still wasn't looking at him. "Look, I get you wanna help. I know it's your job. But I think Dean and I've made it pretty clear this is something I'm doing whether you approve of it or not." Sam draped his elbow over the back of his chair, hooked his wrist on it. "I signed on for this way before you showed up, and I plan on seeing it through. I'll be fine."

"I see."

Sam still wasn't quite sure how to talk to Castiel. He'd never dealt with angels before. He'd known him less than forty-eight hours. All their interactions up to now had involved Dean and a staggering amount of tension. Sam was also continuously, painfully aware he was dealing with something cosmic, alien, and powerful enough to rip every vein in his body out through his fingertips with a blink. So he hesitated to say what he wanted to next.

He was pretty sure Dean could also rip his veins out, though, and would probably enjoy it a hell of a lot more than Castiel would, on a basic, animal level. And Sam had blown him in the shower this morning to make up for dropping him Thursday. So he went ahead and said it anyway.

"You said Messiahs are supposed to...save the world, right?" Sam put a hand on his chest. "And you think _I'm_ a Messiah."

"You are," Castiel said to the collage of photographs and articles on the wall. "All of Heaven knows it." He inhaled sharply through his nose. "And you _will_ save the world."

"Right." Sam drummed his fingertips on his thigh for a second, stopped. "So...how d'you know this isn't how I'm supposed to do it?"

Castiel didn't seem to have an answer. In fact, for the reaction he gave, he might as well not have heard Sam at all. Assuming the conversation was over, and not willing to let Castiel's large and uncomfortable presence distract him (even though it felt like the place might explode if somebody broke a window), Sam turned back to his laptop. Then Castiel took a few steps towards him and said something that hitched Sam's shoulders all the way up to his ears.

"I heard you and Dantalion coupling yesterday."

Sam covered his face with both hands, then dragged them slowly down, catching his bottom lip and pulling his mouth open. It didn't seem to do anything for the hard blush centering on his cheekbones.

"Is that not the polite term?" Castiel waited, maybe for Sam to respond, but Sam didn't. "Perhaps I shouldn't bother using the polite term. After all, I found it horrifying. Especially the noises Dantalion made."

"Dean," Sam mumbled, eyes squeezed shut. He really hoped he wasn't about to get a lecture on purity. That ship had sailed for good a while back.

Castiel ignored the correction. "I understand that, as a human near your reproductive peak, you have certain...unavoidable carnal urges. Are you certain, though, that sating them with a Knight of Hell, errant or not, is the best choice?"

"Is this you, uh, trying to 'guide' me?" Sam wanted to know, voice coming out more strained than he would've liked.

"If I can," Castiel confirmed. "However..." He drew in a loud breath. "As you've reminded me time and again, I vowed not to interfere in the relationship between you two, and I'll do my best to keep my word." He was quiet for a second. "If intercourse with Dantalion is an absolute necessity, I would at least prefer not to overhear it."

"Well, that might be a problem." Sam cleared his throat. He might be too embarrassed or afraid to say this normally, even with Dean on his side, but the angel was starting to grate on him like road rash under heavy jeans. "You said you're not leaving me alone for anything, and. W-we have kind of a lotta sex."

There was a very long pause from Castiel, still standing directly behind Sam. He could feel him like a gun on the back of his head but, swallowing as his face slowly cooled down, he did his best to forget about him. He was reading the Minnehaha County Sheriff's Office missing-person report on Bobby Singer, and admiring Jody Mills' attention to detail, when Castiel asked, "Is he at least gentle?"

Sam grabbed his laptop and phone, the warded bedroom looking very appealing all of a sudden. The chair screeched backwards across the linoleum as he stood up, a downright explosive sigh tumbling out of him. Castiel kept pace with him all the way to the stairs, head down and eyes still aimed far away from Sam, apologizing.

"My intention certainly wasn't to offend you," he promised. "The nature of your intimacy isn't my concern, I realize now. I won't pry any more, nor offer my advice. Please, forgive me."

Very reluctantly, Sam returned to the kitchen table. He really did need all the papers.

Castiel stayed inside but now left a respectful distance between them, taking up a position over by the fifties-style fridge. And he was finally looking at Sam. He could feel him studying him, which was almost as bad as having him two feet away.

"You're searching for Robert Singer now?" he asked as Sam finished the report and transitioned into a sweep for Bobby's known aliases.

"Sorta." Sam coughed; why was he telling Castiel this, or even still talking to him at all? "Actually trying to track down somebody who used to know him, so that guy can hopefully point us in the right direction."

"And if that man has no relevant information?"

Sam filled his cheeks with air and blew it out. "Back to square one, I guess."

Castiel blinked owlishly at him, Sam catching it out of the corner of his eye. "You could find Robert himself quite easily on your own."

Sam had a bad feeling about that right away. It sounded too much like a djinn promising eternal happiness with no effort, or a vampire immortality. But he bit anyway.

"How?" He looked at Castiel full-on.

"Your powers are still in their infancy," Castiel began. "Not to mention stunted, and unpredictable, since they did not emerge naturally. But they could be theoretically coaxed closer to their full, healthy potential."

His so-called Messiah powers. Of course. Sam licked his lips.

"You're a Messiah," Castiel explained. "Not fully fledged yet, but you still have access to essentially godlike powers. Finding one person, no matter how well-hidden or heavily warded, would be an exceedingly simple task."

"Yeah, I've got... _no_ idea how to do that," Sam said, shaking his head. He couldn't even control when the visions came, let alone what he saw.

"I'd be thrilled to instruct you to the very best of my abilities," Castiel told him, sounding like he'd been leading up to this. "That is, after all, one of my assigned duties."

Sam sucked in a breath to speak, held it, hesitated. He remembered the hurricane sensation of a vision bowling him over, terrible and unstoppable as a high-speed car crash, agony like acid being shot straight into his skull. The telekinesis had been even worse. Bringing that on voluntarily was about as appealing as taking a claw hammer to his teeth.

He did consider it, for a moment. Maybe the greater good outweighed his personal comfort and sanity.

But then there was what Castiel had said about, presumably, a "fully fledged" Messiah. A human...but only "of a sort."

"Yeah, I don't think so." Sam let go of the breath in a rush.

Castiel examined him. Either he had better control over his vessel than even Dean or he just had no clue how to use the face, because there was no expression or movement beyond the flicking of his eyes.

"You seem to be experiencing a lot of what I believe are negative emotions right now," he commented. "I'm confident I can assuage any fears you might have."

Sam wished Dean were still here, for a second; he definitely would've made fun of Castiel for saying "assuage." "No, thanks."

More staring. Then Castiel spoke again, and for the first time all day, a clear emotion came through in the angel's voice: frustration.

"Avoiding your abilities will be far more detrimental than whatever harm you think exploring them will cause," Castiel said testily. "This is your birthright, Sam, your God-given purpose, and you should understand that I, as an angel, do not use that term lightly." He shook his head, the movement jerky and avian. "You said you wanted to learn how to control these powers. To complete the Trials. While I can't condone that, control is an excellent goal...but one that can only be reached through acceptance and _use_ , not denial."

"I'm not in denial," Sam protested. "I'll just...figure it out myself. When something as important as this isn't on the line." He glanced at his laptop. "Look, could - could we maybe talk about this later? I'm kinda busy."

That didn't seem to matter to Castiel, even when Sam tried to go back to work.

"I'm curious how you plan to find Robert Singer without divine power." Was it just Sam, or did Castiel sound downright snarky now? "I wasn't even able to find him."

"Easy." Sam spoke above the rapid-fire clicking of his keyboard as he typed, eyes on the computer screen. "Good, old-fashioned research."

Sam wasn't full enough of himself to think that shut Castiel up; it hadn't even been that snappy a retort. He'd probably just gotten sick of arguing, which...seemed to happen to a lot of people around Sam. At any rate, he left him to his research for the better part of an hour, wandering slowly around the house's first floor. By the time he heard his voice again, Sam had truly, legitimately forgotten Castiel was there.

"I didn't." Castiel was at the window that directly faced the sea, staring out when Sam looked over his shoulder. His arms hung limp at his sides, like he wasn't sure what to do with them.

Sam went back over the end of their conversation, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't hang those two words on any part of it. "...what?"

"When I came in, you asked if I'd gotten tired of the view." Castiel's face was reflected in the window from where Sam was sitting, ghost-eyes all but glowing. "I didn't. I'm...fond, of the ocean, I suppose you could say."

"Oh." Honestly, Sam was more confused now. "Me. Me, too."

Castiel didn't say anything else.

* * *

It was a couple of hours later that Dean finally came back, long enough for Sam to start to worry some but not so long he'd summon him or something. Castiel had moved back outside to look at the ocean some more, and Sam was ending a phone call with Charlie, catching her up and asking her to keep an eye out for any useful information. (She also told him a Saturday call didn't get him off the hook; she still totally expected to hear from him Monday.) He didn't even realize Dean had teleported in until the floorboards creaked.

"He - " Sam turned around, smiling, but the greeting curled up and died on his tongue when he saw Dean.

His shoulders were so tight his collarbone might've been in danger of snapping, and his jaw seemed to be clenched hard enough to crack teeth. His expression was pinched, sour, and his pupils were boiling black in the middle of the green, smoke leaking out but not fully flooding his eyes.

He looked much worse than when he'd left. Worse, even, than when Castiel had first attached himself to Sam.

"Are you...are you okay?" Sam asked with heavy concern, getting up and going over to Dean. _What the hell happened?_

"Just fuckin' peachy," Dean snapped back.

Sam opened his mouth to point out he clearly wasn't, reaching for him as he did. Dean, though, teleported an entire foot away from him before he could touch him, glaring with fierce, dead eyes. Sam thought of a snake that'd bite if the target got so much as an inch closer, despite Dean not having reminded him of a reptile for months.

There was a long, tense moment where everything was quiet and nobody moved. Sam didn't know what to say or do. He was distantly aware of Castiel peering in through the window. When Dean's head tilted by a fraction of a degree, unnaturally, dangerously, Sam chose to change the subject. For now.

"Uh, so, not a whole lotta progress on the Bobby front, or the Rufus one," Sam started cautiously. Dean didn't react, so he continued. "Nobody knows anything and Ash hasn't had any luck yet. And you know spells aren't working. But...get this." Sam returned to the table and picked up a guide he'd printed. "I found one that's a whole lot stronger. Should cut past most warding, but the ingredients are gonna be a pain. I mean, we gotta kill a - "

"I know where Rufus is," Dean interrupted.

Sam was blindsided. "What?"

"Maybe not really." Dean went around him, into the kitchen. Sam turned with him. "But I remember how to get to a place he used to live, at least, and that seems like as good a start as any." He grabbed the coffee pot, dumped the cold remains into the sink. "Probably gonna be a giant waste of time, but what the hell, right?"

"Y-yeah," Sam agreed, caught so off-balance he was afraid he might fall over.

"Pack your crap, then, and let's go." Dean slammed the pot back into the maker and headed upstairs. Sam, bewildered, followed him.

"Now?"

"Yep." In the bedroom, Dean started tossing the few things he'd taken out of his duffel bag back into it as Sam stood in the doorway. "And we ain't comin' back here, ever, so make sure you get everything."

Sam felt, for a second, like he'd taken a hard blow to the head. He reeled like he would've if that'd actually happened. He gripped the doorframe with both hands, partly for balance, partly to stop Dean from leaving the bedroom.

"You can't be serious."

"Dead." Dean ripped his bag's zipper along its track.

"But - " Sam shook his head, disbelieving. "If you're saying you wanna leave right _exactly_ now, we gotta at least come back to get all _this_ \- " He gestured to the Enochian. " - off the walls."

"'S chalk, Sam." Dean shouldered the duffel, and grabbed his new boombox off the nightstand. "Not exactly that difficult to clean up."

"Still." When Dean approached Sam and Sam refused to move, Dean just teleported onto the stairs behind him. Sam whirled around to glare at his back as he went loudly down them, then hurried after him. "We can at least use this place as a home base, like we have been doing."

At the bottom of the stairs, Sam saw Castiel was inside, but barely had time to notice it because Dean stopped and turned around so fast he almost ran into him.

"This place isn't your house," Dean told Sam harshly, teeth bared and eyes black. "It's not your home. You're probably never gonna have one again, and you _chose_ that, so it's about time you understood it." The lights, including the screen of Sam's laptop, flickered and buzzed. "All this'd be _so much easier_ if you didn't get so freakin' attached to literally everything you come across. It's like you're five goddamn years old, Sam."

Sam's toes clenched on the bottom stair and his throat worked, feeling hollow and cold like everything under his ribcage had been carved away down to his spine. The hurt was an empty, unexpected sort, and there was no way he could keep Dean or Castiel from reading it. Castiel took a couple of steps towards them and then stopped, like he wanted to do something but didn't know what.

"What is the matter with you?" Sam demanded eventually, flinging his arms wide.

"Nothing," Dean replied. "I just can't fucking _wait_ to go look for Rufus." As he headed for the front door, he looked at Castiel. "Guessin' you're coming, so sit your ass down, keep your mouth shut, and if you fuck anything up for us, I'm gonna start setting feathers on fire."

There was no arguing. Sam tried, but Dean definitely wasn't listening. So he wound up putting shoes on, gathering up all of his belongings, and scrambling out to the car with papers falling out of his backpack and Castiel in tow after Dean had been leaning on the horn for a solid five minutes. He left nets on the floor and chalk on the walls, since there obviously wasn't time to clean up all the messes.

 _This is gonna be a fun trip._


	20. Chapter 20

_Let's be honest, most of us won't retire in the traditional sense, and once you've been in the game a while, you know that. Hunting is a high-risk profession (one of several reasons I wouldn't recommend being totally honest if you apply for insurance). Every time you go after a monster or a witch or a ghost, there's a strong possibility you'll be killed, or even turned or possessed. The overwhelming majority of us just don't live long enough for age or injury to force us onto the sidelines. I'm an exception, obviously, but I also didn't expect things to turn out this way._

 _You could always walk away before you get killed or hurt or old. That's easier said than done. You haven't gotten the revenge you need yet. You don't think you can live without the thrill anymore. You can't stand the thought of people dying because you're not there to save them. It's excruciating, to see obvious cases all around you and know you could help but you're not. Lots of people can't stand it._

 _You might convince yourself this is the only thing you're good at (probably not; click here for tips on transferring hunting skills to civilian life), or that it's your duty, or you might keep going on "just one more hunt" until it all ends. And that's perfectly fine. If you hunt, you have to accept that your odds of survival, of breaking free of the life for good, are extremely low._

 _That's not to say nobody makes it. Some of the people who do retire remain super active in the community, doing research and giving advice, like me. If any of you remember Bobby Singer, he's a prime example, too._

 _There are others, though, who decide that when they're done, they're done. They cut off all contact and go underground to protect either themselves or their families, wouldn't be dragged kicking and screaming back into hunting even if it was the end of the world. You might as well just leave these guys alone unless it's a real emergency and there's literally no one else you can turn to. Not just because they want to stay private, or because they might take out your kneecaps if you knock on their door, but because they've earned it._

 _If you'd spent your whole life ruining your body, your record, and any chance you had of ever feeling really safe to help other people, wouldn't you want to be left alone when you asked?_

 _\- "Hunting and Retirement," posted on website of Sam Winchester_

* * *

"Something's happened," Castiel observed, eyes fixed on Dean where he was pumping gas outside the car. He still looked at him like he'd really rather not, like he was seeing something as unpleasant as a mutilated corpse would've been to Sam.

"Uh, yeah." A short laugh, incredulous, jumped out of Sam. "No shit, Sherlock."

There was a pause, then Castiel stated, "I don't understand that reference."

Sam couldn't be bothered to explain it to him. He could feel Dean's bad mood seeping into him, like sewage leaking into the dirt around a cracked septic tank. It was a gross metaphor, but felt accurate.

"His emotions are...unusual," Castiel commented a second later. "It isn't as if demons don't feel negative things; indeed, those are usually much more powerful than any positive emotions they may have. Dantalion's range and intensity, though, are very much out of the ordinary."

"Human?" Sam had wearily given up on correcting Castiel when it came to Dean's name.

He could see Dean in his peripheral vision, wearing sunglasses because of Castiel. And unmistakably glaring from behind them, like he knew they were talking about him. He probably did.

"Not quite," Castiel replied, "but still odd for a demon."

"I told you." Despite everything, Sam felt the tiniest flicker of triumph.

Dean finished filling the tank, a metallic _click_ thudding dully through the car. Surprisingly enough for such a rural part of Mississippi, the pumps at this station were new enough to take a card directly. No need to go inside to pay. Dean came around and patted the hood, though, because they did need to go inside to grab Sam some dinner.

Sam could've gone in and got it on his own, saved some time. But even if Castiel hadn't been around and pretty much guaranteed to go with him (which really rubbed Dean the wrong way), he wouldn't've risked going anywhere without Dean right now. And not just so he wouldn't piss him off, either; he couldn't care less about that. It was just that him being wound so tight made Sam think that something dangerous was going on.

Dean had relaxed some as they put down miles between themselves and Surfside Beach, but he was still so clearly right on the edge. He also hadn't been any more forthcoming than back at the cottage, which was driving Sam up the wall. Ellen had warned him, he guessed.

Sam climbed out of the car, Dean locked it, and they headed into the convenience store with Castiel following in a repeat of Friday morning. At least Dean seemed inclined to just ignore him this time around.

It was early evening, but the sun had already set, the fluorescent lights almost shockingly bright against the darkness outside. They gleamed off the chrome and glass of the salad bar Sam definitely hadn't been expecting to see. Despite how well-maintained it appeared, he knew he should avoid it. Too high a risk of picking up a stomach virus. But he _really_ wanted a salad. As much as he loved Dean's cooking, it wasn't real heavy on the vegetables.

Whatever, not like he wasn't already living dangerously. Plus, between Castiel and Dean, he doubted he'd have to deal with a virus for any longer than he wanted to. He headed over to the salad bar.

Dean stayed close. Castiel, meanwhile, was drawn to the hot dog case, apparently mesmerized by their slow turning under the heat lamp. He would've been able to hear them talking from that distance even if he was human, but he didn't look like he was paying attention. It was a welcome sliver of privacy.

Dean handed Sam a Styrofoam container. It was a little thing, but Sam decided to see it as a peace offering. Maybe Dean'd open up now.

"So." Sam cleared his throat, piling lettuce into the container. "You gonna tell me what happened on your walk?"

"Nothing," Dean muttered stonily.

Sam knew he was lying. He was also pretty sure Dean knew he knew. "Really?"

"Yeah. Really." It looked like Dean's eyes were aimed firmly down at a tub of cheese-garlic croutons, but it was so tough to tell with the glasses on. "Nothing."

"Well, I mean, it just kinda _seems_ like - "

"Look, Sam." Dean cut him off. "I pulled a...a _you,_ okay? I just kept thinking about all of it, whatever Hell's up to. You apparently being the next Jesus. Seein' my dad again, seein' Rufus again. _Him_." He jerked his head venomously at Castiel. "And I freaked myself out. I'm still freaking out, honestly." He was keeping his voice low, not attracting the attention of the cashier or the couple other people in the store. "I want you to know I'm in here for the long haul, I got your back. Not goin' anywhere." He looked at Sam. "But _shit_ , it's just been one thing after another, and I didn't sign up for most of it."

Sam glanced away, at the spinach and the carrots and the pickled beets, and swallowed.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"You don't gotta be. Most of it ain't even close to being your fault." Dean pointed at one of the trays, changed the subject. "How 'bout you grab some of that turkey? Since we missed Thanksgiving and all."

Sam realized he was right. December had started on Monday, hadn't it? It'd barely occurred to him.

It could be the truth, he thought to himself as he finished putting his salad together. Dean could've pulled a "him," as he'd put it (as much as Sam hated that, he'd let it go if it didn't become a thing), just freaked out. It sounded true and that was probably why Dean had offered it up. But Sam didn't think it was.

The instincts that'd served him so well as a hunter and then a researcher, that'd been one of his father's few gifts to him, pushed for him to pry. Something newer and more voluntary, though, told him to just back off. He didn't want to, it went against most of him, but he'd been trying so hard to listen to that second thing while he and Dean were working together. So Sam asked, "You really remember Rufus's address and everything?"

Dean seemed surprised Sam was dropping it. He also seemed like he wasn't about to ask questions. "Not the address, but I remember exactly how to get there."

After Sam had grabbed a bottle of water and an iced coffee, for later, they checked out. Castiel reluctantly left the hot dogs behind. The cashier weighed Sam's salad, the entire wall behind him lined with bottles running from clear to dark amber. Because it was Mississippi, the gas station more or less doubled as a liquor store. There was actually some good stuff up on the top shelf; even Sam, who wasn't much of a drinker, could tell. Dean pointed to one in a vaguely-familiar blue box as he pulled his wallet out.

"Hey, man, think I could get that bottle of Johnnie Walker? The Blue Label?"

The cashier seemed surprised, but shrugged. "Sure thing. Can I see some ID?"

They'd put together a few driver's licenses back in May. This one belonged to Dean Smith, born in 1979. The cashier bagged the whiskey, and as they walked out, Sam eyed it.

"You planning on drinking all that?" he asked uncertainly. He hadn't seen Dean eat or drink anything since he'd known him, and he knew why: he remembered being told he couldn't taste it. Part of being a demon.

"No. And much as I'd like to make you drink this so I can live vicariously through you..." Dean raised the bag, examining the shape of the box inside critically. "I'm not gonna. This is for Rufus, if we actually find him. Always brought him one of these whenever he was pissed at me before, figure it can't hurt your case."

Sam smiled a little, relieved he wasn't expected to drink it, either. He knew a hundred-and-eighty-dollar bottle of Johnnie Walker would be essentially wasted on him. He'd only had beer during his time at the cabin, and not too much, either. He couldn't risk the booze interacting with the painkillers he occasionally had to take. And he'd gotten many an unpleasant eyeful of what leaning too heavy on alcohol did to a person, growing up a hunter.

By the time they got back to the car, Dean was thinking out loud as he stowed the whiskey.

"All right, so, we'll get back on I-81." He climbed into the front as Sam did the same, holding his food. "Take that all the way up - Christ, Feathers, wouldja get the lead out? We got literally a whole goddamn day of driving left ahead of us."

"A whole day?" Sam frowned. Castiel glared as he got more quickly into the back seat; Dean's tone changing so suddenly from a resigned monotone to a snap proved the mini-talk they'd had by the salad bar hadn't mellowed him out any. "Where'd Rufus live when you knew him?"

Dean _chunk_ ed the keys forcefully into the ignition, and snatched the car into drive without putting a hand on the shifter.

"Vermont."

Sam's breath caught like Dean had grabbed it telekinetically, too. At the same time, the muscles in his left calf bunched up like a clenching fist. It was so bad he had to lean down, over his salad, and rub at the trembling knots through the denim, trying to get them to release, hissing in shallow breaths, remembering cold, miserable mornings in his cabin. _Forcing_ himself, actually, to remember that exact forest, those exact mountains, because it was better than the alternative.

"Sam?" Fabric rustled as Castiel, concerned, leaned forward in the back.

"Hey." A hand, tentative and awkward, hovered over his short hair. He could feel Dean looking at him, too, even as he navigated them back onto the interstate. "What's the matter?"

It probably wasn't a big deal he didn't remember, Sam decided distantly. There was so much else going on. And as far as minute details went, it wasn't important to anyone but Sam himself.

"You said this Rufus Turner lived in Vermont?" Castiel asked Dean, coming across as more than a bit accusatory. "I recognize the name. Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe that's the area where Sam was orphaned and lamed."

Sam was surprised to find he felt more bitter about the simple fact of Castiel knowing that than how he'd phrased it.

"...right." Dean sighed, halfway between irritated and regretful. "Sorry." Either the cramps were easing off or Sam was getting used to them. He warily straightened back up. "If it's any comfort to you, we probably won't be there long."

"What d'you mean?" Sam was breathing hard, for some reason.

"Rufus was getting up there when I disappeared." Dean had taken his hand back, put it on the wheel, and he wasn't looking at Sam anymore. "You know hunting doesn't exactly set people up to live into their nineties, retirement or not. He's probably pushing daisies. And if he isn't, I knew him, and he was way too smart to stay in one place for twenty years."

Sam was silent. Mostly because Dean was outlining things he'd been trying hard not to think about himself.

"And say, miracle of miracles, we do find him," Dean went on, dispassionately. "He won't know where Bobby is, 'cause the most likely scenario here is Bobby got shanghaied by demons. 'Cause of me."

"You don't know that - " Sam started, shaking his head.

"But I basically _do_ , Sam." Dean looked like he was about to snap the steering wheel off the column. "My dad disappearing was probably my fault, ten to one. Everything that's happened to me is my fault. And now - "

From the way his head jerkily snapped to the rearview mirror, Dean had suddenly remembered Castiel. He cut himself off and for a long time, even after he merged onto the interstate, he didn't say anything. Neither did Sam, or Castiel.

"I can tell I'm not making you feel any better." When Dean spoke up again, his voice was quiet and frustrated. He was also glaring at Castiel as if daring him to make a remark about that, the sunglasses doing nothing to hide it. "And I don't know how to fix that."

There was some more silence after that, which Sam broke by clearing his throat.

"I don't know how to make you feel better, either." Partly because he still didn't know what was going on with him, but he didn't say that. "So I guess the best we can do is...freak out together."

Dean didn't reply to that, but he did take his hand off the wheel again, and drop it heavily onto Sam's. Sam let him hold it for a long time, the car humming dark around them, Castiel quiet, for once, in the back seat.

"I, uh, I'm gonna need both hands to eat, Dean," Sam said eventually, feeling bad about it even as the words came out of his mouth. "Unless you want low-fat ranch all over the car."

Dean sighed exaggeratedly through his nose, and Sam was sure he was rolling his eyes. He moved his hand down to Sam's knee and kept it there.

* * *

Saturday and Sunday night both, they covered a lot of asphalt, but always wound up getting a motel early in the morning so Sam could spend a few hours in a bed. He appreciated that, fully aware Dean could've driven straight through, only stopping for gas, made him sleep in the passenger seat.

(The back was out of the question since Castiel basically lived there now, and so was switching. Sam knew without asking Dean didn't want the angel riding shotgun.)

It might've been a little selfish, he guessed. Dean wanting some alone time with him. He didn't bother warding up the rooms, but he made it perfectly clear Castiel wasn't welcome, and Castiel respected that. He probably thought they were going to have sex. They didn't. Sam was tired, his back hurt, and Dean wasn't even interested, but Sam could understand why Castiel didn't want to take the risk.

It felt, to Sam, like Dean was trying to hit a sweet spot that might or might not even exist, between how bad he wanted to leave Texas behind and how bad Sam wanted to stay away from Vermont.

They rolled over the state line Monday morning, and Dean asked Sam if he wanted to call everyone.

"I need to." Sam blew out a breath. "But I'm gonna wait 'til after we get to Rufus's place, whether he's there or not. I don't wanna call unless I've got news."

Dean nodded like he understood, then, quiet, guarded, asked, "How's your leg?"

Sam touched his left calf, almost unconsciously. It wasn't cramping right now. The pain was more phantom than physical. It'd been bothering him pretty much constantly since the "Welcome to Vermont" sign about half an hour ago, but he was okay, it was stupid.

"Fine," he replied, straightening up. They were headed for Canaan, which was a decent distance from the wendigo den he still dreamed about a couple times a month. But being surrounded by forested mountains, even when the trees were bare and snowy rather than burning with fall colors, was getting to Sam. Just a little. He knew it shouldn't. But it did. "How about you? How're you doing?"

Dean grimaced. "'Bout as good as I can be. Might be talking to the guy who half-raised me later today, and..." He glanced at Sam, sunglasses on his face where they'd been all weekend. "This is. Y'know. Might be my first time face-to-face with somebody who knew me...before."

"'Half-raised?'" Sam repeated, surprised. Dean so clearly didn't want to elaborate on any of it, but he couldn't help asking.

"Yeah, he was involved pretty much since my mom died, which happened when I was born, so right at the very beginning." Dean's hands flexed on the wheel. "Taught my dad to hunt, was around pretty much all the time...look, Sam, I'd really rather not talk about this right now, okay?"

"I'm sorry." Dean was obviously still running hot, and Sam could see him getting agitated all over again.

"Y'know, your guardian angel's sure been quiet a long time." Dean changed the subject. "What's on your mind, Clarence?"

He lifted his head to look at Castiel in the rearview mirror, and Sam glanced over his shoulder. Castiel actually hadn't said anything for a while. He seemed to be kind of zoning out in the back, eyes hooded and glassy and a darker, duller blue than usual. He didn't do anything to indicate he'd even heard Dean.

"Awesome," Dean exclaimed after a second, like Castiel had answered.

"You think he's okay?" Sam squinted at him.

"Who cares? This is the least obnoxious he's been since he imprinted on you or whatever." Dean coughed, and Sam could've sworn he saw black smoke frothing in his mouth. Like he was boiling in his body. "We got a few hours left, Canaan's up by the border." He hit Sam's shoulder lightly with the back of his hand. "Hey, you want coffee?"

Sam opened his mouth to say he was good, but Dean cut him off. "Let's get you some coffee."

He pulled off, heading for a convenience store. He didn't seem quite right, but that'd been the case since Saturday, and Sam still didn't really know how to help him.

* * *

"This is it?" Sam asked doubtfully. "You're sure?"

Sitting in the Impala, parked against the sidewalk, Sam couldn't deny the little two-story across the street was not what he'd been expecting. Green with red trim, located in a residential neighborhood, no sign of devil's traps or weapons in the midway-unkempt and snow-covered front yard. When Ellen had said Rufus was retired and liked his privacy, Sam must have unconsciously seen something out in the middle of the woods, surrounded by barbed wire fencing and tree-hung talismans.

"Used to be," Dean agreed, drumming his fingers on the leather of the seat next to him. "And honestly, looks like it still is." He turned to Sam. "Got enough iron, salt, and warding around the house to keep a Prince of Hell out, so. I'm benched."

He grinned a little, and it was relieved, like the realization he wouldn't have to knock on Rufus's door himself was a huge weight off his shoulders. Then he turned around to look into the back.

"Lotta Enochian glyphs over there, too." He spoke directly to Castiel. "Which means you are also SOL, Birdbrain. Congrats."

Castiel was as spacey as he'd been all day, looking like he was listening to something only he could hear. That, though, snapped him out of it, brightened his eyes again.

"I don't like this," he stated, pushing himself up in the back seat.

"Well, that's too damn bad." Dean opened Sam's door with a curl of a couple fingers, then handed him the Blue Label, which had been riding on the floor between their feet since Mississippi. Out of the car, they crossed the quiet street. Castiel followed. The handle didn't give him trouble anymore.

"This is a bad idea, Sam," Castiel warned. "To enter a place you've never been before, where I can't accompany you. Since you've refused to even discuss using your abilities, you're essentially helpless."

"Right, 'cause him heading in there and passing out from the mother of all migraines'd just be so damn helpful," Dean agreed sarcastically. He'd misunderstood, and Sam knew Castiel was going to correct him, and he didn't want him to. Thankfully, Dean kept talking. "He ain't helpless. Got a few knives on him." The demon-killing knife and angel blade in his jacket, a much smaller just-in-case in his boot. Sam knew Dean would feel better if he carried a gun at all times, but he didn't want to raise the risk of shooting himself in the ass. "But he's not gonna need 'em, 'cause Rufus is good people." He stepped up onto the curb in front of the house, faced Sam when he joined him. Seriously, Dean told him, "If something _does_ go wrong, somehow, I'm gonna be right out here on the sidewalk. And I will find a way to get to you."

" _We_ will find a way." Castiel was glaring when they both looked at him. And standing in the gutter, which he didn't seem to realize was full of slush and mud.

Dean's face didn't move, but Sam knew his eyes were rolling like obsidian marbles behind his glasses. Then, with no warning, he delivered an enthusiastic slap to Sam's ass. "Knock 'em dead, Sammy."

Sam literally jumped over the property line, then stumbled to a stop and shot Dean an irritated look. It didn't affect him, but at least Castiel seemed highly offended on Sam's behalf. Facing forward again, Sam squared his shoulders, squeezed the plastic handles of the bag holding the whiskey, and went up the walk.

He noted the furniture on the stately porch that didn't look like it belonged there, the sunfaded, handmade NO SOLICITING sign. He stood in front of the door, all his weight on his right leg. Then he knocked.

"What?" Right away, a voice crackled harshly through a speaker Sam couldn't see.

"Rufus Tur - ?"

"You better tell me what the hell you're doing here before I shoot you through the door."

There was a mechanical whirring above Sam's head, and he looked up to see a security camera, mounted in the corner and turning to face him. He spoke directly to the lens, trying, "I'm human."

"Could you have gotten this far if you weren't? I know that."

"My name's Sam Winchester." He wasn't sure what else to say.

"I know that, too," Rufus (presumably) snapped. "And I _also_ know trouble sticks closer to you than flies to shit, so you better have a damn good reason for showing up on my doorstep."

Sam felt his eyebrows rise, mildly affronted. "I'm looking for Bobby Singer."

"He's gone," Rufus stated flatly. "Disappeared a few years back. And I know you know that."

"I know he's alive."

"And why the hell should I care?" Rufus returned. "In fact, I think we're done here."

"But I - "

"I'm gonna warn you once and once only." Rufus cut him off again. "Get your ass off my property, never come back, and take your pets with you. The Knight of Hell and whatever the guy in the trench coat is."

So he knew about them, too. Or at least Dean. Sam swallowed past a growing tightness in his throat and forced himself to stay right where he was. "I'm not leaving until you talk to me about Bobby."

"Well, fuck you, too," Rufus shot back. "Makin' me do this the hard way...guess you got 'til I get to the door to change your mind and decide you wanna keep all your guts where they belong."

"Sam," Dean called warningly from the sidewalk.

"W-wait!" Sam held his free hand up to the camera, palm out. Age wouldn't stop Rufus from firing a shotgun through the door and into his stomach, and he was running out of time to get far enough away to avoid that, but even as his heart picked up to jackhammer speeds, Sam was so painfully aware that this was their only lead. "All you gotta do is tell me you don't know anything, and I'll go."

"You need to leave _now_." Castiel's voice was rough and urgent, clearly a command. "You can't take risks like this, Sam, you're far too important."

"Makes me gag to say it, but he's right on this one," Dean agreed tensely. Sam ignored them both.

"Even if I do know something." Rufus must not have gotten too far from his microphone yet. Or he was wearing it. "Why the _hell_ should I tell _you_?"

"Because the Knight of Hell's Bobby's son." Sam jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I know you recognize him, and he's not just wearing his skin." He could feel all the trauma and stress of the past months, and especially the past days, steaming and rolling high in his throat, just beneath the surface of his voice. And it was leaking. "If that isn't enough, the guy in the trench coat is an angel. He's hanging around 'cause Heaven wants me for something. And the demons've been working on some plan for... _years_ now, I don't know what but it's gonna be bad, and Dean and I? All we wanna do is close the Gates of Hell." He took a breath. "Make the whole mess just a little more manageable."

Rufus said nothing. Sam knew he ought to shuffle to the side some, at least, to try and head off a gunshot from behind the door. But he was feeling drained all of a sudden, and his left leg was just killing him. And he didn't want to believe Rufus would really shoot him.

"Please." Sam shook his head at the camera. "If you know _anything_ about where Bobby is, I really need to talk to you."

No answer, once again, but Sam heard a wide assortment of locks start to come undone on the other side of the door. He waited. After a minute, the door swung open, and there was no gun, thankfully. Just the guy who had to be Rufus.

His black hair was grizzled heavily through with gray and white, and the deep creases in his dark skin, especially around his mouth and eyes, probably meant he'd spent a lot of time scowling. Like he was right now. He had a cane and, with the way he was leaning on it, probably could've used a walker. His eyes were bright and sharp, though, and his voice, when he spoke, was even stronger than it'd sounded over the speaker.

"I already know I'm gonna regret this," Rufus muttered, "but I _guess_ you can come in." He glared at Sam. "There's a bullet with your name on it if you try anything funny, though, and don't think just 'cause I'm old I can't put it between your eyes."

"No, sir," Sam agreed quietly.

Rufus leaned around him then, squinting out at the sidewalk. Sam half-turned to see Castiel staring back, stony and definitely not pleased, and Dean facing awkwardly away like there was just something super interesting over by where the Impala was parked. Rufus snorted.

Sam looked at him as he turned around and started slowly back into his house, tossing a grudging "Come on, then" over his shoulder. Sam went to follow him, but hesitated in the doorway, glancing back at Dean again. This was hardly the first time he'd gone somewhere without him. But it didn't feel great right now.

"You gonna turn into a pumpkin if you get too far away from 'em?" Rufus demanded. "Hurry up, I don't have all day."

"Sorry." Sam hurried after him, closing the door behind himself. Rufus took a minute to put all the locks and a security bar back in place with gnarled hands.

The inside of the house was as brightly-colored as the outside, combined with a lot of dark wood paneling. It would've popped back in the seventies, which was when Sam would guess the place had been built, but the thirty intervening years had left things faded and dingy.

"What's the matter with your leg?" Rufus asked, scrutinizing Sam as he led him into his study.

"Nothing." Sam made himself stop limping, blocking out how bad it hurt to walk normally.

Rufus's study was dark, and not just because of the paneling. Overstuffed bookshelves partially covered a window the heavy curtains were drawn on. A decade-old Dell sat on the desk, both it and the lamp next to it turned off. The only real light came from the weak ceiling fixture Rufus turned on and the bank of CCTV screens against one wall. Dean and Castiel were on half of them, from multiple angles and distances, tinted the slight green of outdated technology. Rufus had more cameras than Sam had seen out there.

Rufus carefully lowered himself into a chair at a small table in the middle of the room, leaning his cane (plain, black, functional) against his leg. Sam took a seat across from him.

There was a silence that stretched on just a little too long, while Rufus eyed Sam the way he might a toothless ghoul. Not extremely dangerous, but not to be trusted, and not pleasant to look at, either. Eventually, Sam remembered the whiskey. He cleared his throat awkwardly, taking the box out of the bag, not quite sure how to present it.

"So, I, uh, brought this - "

"I don't drink." Rufus interrupted as Sam set the Johnnie Walker down on the table. "Not anymore. Cirrhosis _and_ diabetes; nasty combination." He scowled, though, when Sam moved to put it away, and grabbed the box himself. "Well, don't _take_ it."

Sam gave up. Setting the whiskey down next to his cane, Rufus looked at him.

"So." He folded his arms on the table, leaned on them. "You _honestly_ believe the Knight out there is not only the real Dean Singer, but that he's not doing the usual demon thing and screwing you over."

Sam was getting tired of explaining this, defending himself and Dean. But he launched into his spiel anyway.

"I don't know if you know this, but I hurt my leg when I was seventeen." He patted his left knee.

"I know," Rufus agreed impatiently. "Wendigo. Real nasty. Word recently's you found a way to fix it, though. I'm guessing that angel out there?" He tipped his head toward the front of the house.

"No, he's...only been in the picture a few days. It was Dean." Sam got some satisfaction out of the surprise that flickered across Rufus's face. "He died doing the Trials, and now he's helping me do them."

"So I've heard." Rufus grunted. "I know damn near everything there is to know about you, son. From how much work you've done on how to kill monsters to you taking out Gordon Walker." Sam felt himself twitch, and Rufus lifted a hand. "Good riddance, bad garbage. Never met the guy, but heard plenty. Wonder nobody snapped his neck before you did."

He leaned forward, held Sam's gaze.

"What I don't know anything about, though," he said levelly, "is the angel. So why don't you tell me all about him, and anything else you think I oughta know, if I don't already?"

Sam hesitated, but remembered what Dean had said about Rufus: _He's good people. He half-raised me._ And he started to talk.

It took well over an hour to cover everything. Part of that was because Rufus interrupted practically every other word, to tell him he already knew something or to ask combative questions. It was worse than when he'd caught up with Ellen and everyone else.

Sam kept an eye on Castiel and Dean. For the most part, they just stood guard out there on the sidewalk, occasionally sniping silently back and forth with each other, both (especially Dean) growing visibly more irritated. Neighbors passed by and in a couple cases came out of their houses to talk to them, probably wondering what the hell they were doing. Eventually, the two of them retreated to the car, Castiel climbing into the back after what looked like a heated argument over him sitting in the passenger seat.

Sam's mouth got dry at one point and Rufus offered the whiskey. He reluctantly accepted, even though he hadn't had any hard liquor since his father died eight years ago, and it'd always been stuff from shelves so low they doubled as floors. Rufus shared a couple fingers with him despite not drinking anymore, and shook his head in disgust when Sam grimaced after every swallow.

When Sam finished telling him everything he wanted to know, Rufus shook his head again, long and slow this time.

"You are right in the middle of it, aren't you?" he proclaimed, leaning back in his chair. "Last guy I knew who was that kinda magnet for all things dangers was..." He sighed through his nose. "Well. Your black-eyed beauty out there's wearing his face."

"So you don't think he's really Dean."

"I don't know." The statement was angry in its honesty. "Sure sounds like him, from what you've told me, but there's no way to tell for sure, and it's not exactly _normal_ for a demon to have so much of who they were before. They remember lots, sure, but the people they were when they were human? They can't act like 'em anymore." Rufus looked at Sam. "I don't really care if he's Dean or not. He's been gone twenty years, doesn't make a difference to me. Does seem like this demon's on your side. I can't imagine what his angle is otherwise, taking care of you and helping out for so long." He examined one of the glasses, plastic and cloudy with soap scum, they'd just drunk Johnnie Walker Blue out of. "I heard you were good with your monsters. I guess you'd gotta be, to do what you did, but gentling down a Knight of Hell? Now _that_ _'s_ impressive."

Sam smiled quietly down at his hands.

"So." Rufus cleared his throat. "You really intend to finish the Trials of God? If you do, sounds like you got it pretty well in hand. You really need Bobby's help?"

"Couldn't hurt." Sam shrugged. "Mainly, I need to talk to him about this Messiah thing, since it's looking like I'm gonna have to take care of that before I even think about the Second Trial. Also, I..." Sam glanced at the TV screens, Dean and Castiel in the Impala. "I really wanna see him again. I wanna know what happened."

Rufus was quiet a moment, nodding to himself and tapping two fingers on the table. Then he asked, "You _sure_ you're committed to closing the Gates? Not like a whole lotta people know about the Trials, but there're rumors, y'know. That it really is too good to be true, that there's a higher cost than just doing the Trials themselves. Which is why nobody's ever done it before."

"I know how to cure a demon," Sam responded, firm. "It is possible, and that's the last Trial. I'm gonna do this."

Rufus's mouth quirked. "I'll tell you one thing. If your demon actually is Dean, he'll see you through this all the way to the very end."

"Sounds like you two were close," Sam commented.

"We ought've been," Rufus agreed. "I was there when he was born, practically. Saw Bobby kill his mom and everything."

Sam's shock must have shown on his face. Rufus smiled bleakly.

"You didn't know that, huh?" he asked, and poured himself more whiskey. "Ever hear of an ubume?"

"Yeah." Sam's memory kicked in, a thousand pages riffling in his mental library. "Ghost of a woman who died in childbirth."

"More like a demon." Rufus picked up his glass. "Aren't bound to one place or object like ghosts are. They possess pregnant women, kill them and the baby, and take out everybody else around for good measure." He sipped, sighing softly. "Early in 'fifty-six, I was tracking one through South Dakota. Possessed Bobby Singer's pregnant wife, sent her into early labor. Kid turned out fine, still can't believe it; he shouldn't've. Can't say the same for Karen, though."

"...oh my god." Sam's face felt numb, and it wasn't from the whiskey.

"Back then, we didn't know about anything to stop an ubume once it was in somebody besides what Bobby did all on his own, no training or know-how." Rufus knocked back the rest of the whiskey. "It broke him for a long time, what he had to do to Karen to save himself and his kid. And when Dean went missing, it just destroyed him." Rufus set the glass down, carefully. "Destroyed a lot of people."

"I'm sorry," Sam said quietly, folding his hands on the table and squeezing until it started to hurt.

"Oughta save that for if Bobby's really out there and if you manage to find him." Something dropped inside Sam, slow, heavy, and sick, as it started to sound like Rufus didn't actually know anything. "Draggin' that thing into his life." Sam was silent, and Rufus changed the subject then. "Speaking of that thing, your demon. How's he getting on with the angel?"

Sam saw no reason to lie. "Uh, terrible." He shook his head. "He can't stand him, and I think a big part of that's 'cause he's got some sorta...history with angels." He looked away, uncomfortable. "And then Castiel can't leave me alone, and he keeps using Dean's Knight name no matter how many times either of us correct him, and Dean's eyes show black whenever he's around. Which is all the time." He raised his hand. "Honestly, Dean'd probably kill him if he thought he could pull it off and get away with it, but Castiel's already threatened us with his garrison if we try to ditch him. I don't wanna think about what'd happen if he died." He coughed. "Also, I don't want him to kill him."

"Sounds like it's been tough on your boy," Rufus observed. He nodded for a second, then stood up. His hand shook hard on the cane and Sam wondered if he should help him, but unless he was in immediate danger of falling, it'd probably be more trouble than it was worth. "I got something for him, whoever he is. Or I will. Gimme a minute."

Sam opened his mouth and leaned forward to ask about Bobby, but Rufus was already shuffling slowly out of the room. Despite being retired, he was still dressed like a hunter: heavy boots, jeans, button-down shirt.

Waiting on the question he'd wanted to ask this whole time felt like holding in a sinus-ripping sneeze, but Rufus had to come back eventually. It was just like interviewing a witness: patience was key. So Sam sat there, awkwardly. For fifteen or twenty minutes.

On one of the screens, there was a woman in snow boots and a heavy parka that went all the way down to her ankles, over at the Impala. She was bent over to talk through the driver's window, and though the angle meant Sam couldn't see Dean, he was pretty sure they were arguing. Just based on the woman's wild gestures and how her (very wide, even accounting for the coat) hips were swinging. Sam cringed himself deep back into his chair trying to imagine what Dean was saying. He'd seen firsthand how little patience Dean had for people like this, and that was when he wasn't already off-kilter.

Sam _could_ see Castiel, pressing against the window to keep an eye on the conversation, brows and mouth drawn in concentration. The woman eventually stood up, abruptly, and stomped off. Her round face was red under her deerstalker cap, even with the green cast of the screen. She kept looking back at Dean, now visible and plainly fuming, and Sam sucked in a breath and half-stood. He wasn't sure if he should go out there or not, but he was afraid he'd see the woman's neck snap any second.

Instead, though, Dean clawed his cell phone free of his pocket. Sam pulled his own out before he even dialed and answered on the first ring.

"Everything goin' okay in there?" Dean was obviously struggling to keep rage and tension out of his voice, and maybe it was just because Sam could see his face, but he wasn't doing a good job. "Just checking in. You've been gone a while."

"I'm fine," Sam assured. It was weird, how out of control Dean had been these past few days, in terms of his emotions. Castiel and something down in Surfside Beach had snapped some important structure in him. It made Sam feel like he was in the process of swallowing a sword. "We're..." He glanced at the door Rufus had left through. "Having a good talk."

"Yeah, he always did like the sound of his own voice." Dean hung an arm out the window and peered at the house as if trying to see Sam. "Anyway, hope you can wrap it up soon, 'cause there's a crazy bitch out here who I'm pretty sure's gonna call the cops on us."

On the screen, Castiel leaned forward in his seat, and his voice rasped distantly over the phone.

"Maybe she would have been more reasonable if you hadn't threatened to 'break every bone in her body twice' if she couldn't 'mind her own damn business.'"

The screen showed Dean whirling around to look at Castiel, who immediately sat back down. Sam rubbed at his face.

"Okay, so...maybe just drive around or something, so people don't think you're casing the neighborhood. And don't tell anybody else you're gonna break their bones," Sam advised. "Hopefully I'll be done soon." He heard the rubber foot of Rufus's cane _thump_ ing softly on the floor. "I gotta go. See you in a little while...good luck." He hung up just as Rufus returned.

"This is for your Knight." Rufus dropped a plain silver ring onto the table, and Sam looked at it when it clattered to a stop. "Don't know Dean's size, but it's charmed to fit him. Plus do a couple other things." Sam flattened a _Lord of the Rings_ joke before it could come out. "And this..." Rufus sat down again, put a folded piece of paper on the table, and slid it over to Sam with two fingers. "...is for you." He sat back and folded his arms across his chest. "Best I can do."

"Thanks." Sam picked up the paper, along with the ring. It felt weird to open it right now, so he pocketed both. He was aware of Rufus staring at him, and then he spoke after a moment.

"I hope you know that, even if this suicide mission of yours pans out, it's not gonna magically fix everything," Rufus stated bluntly. "People are still gonna hate you, for killing Gordon and fucking a demon. Especially one in a male vessel." Sam glanced away, reddening. He hadn't mentioned his relationship with Dean to Rufus. Rufus scoffed. "What, you honestly think I didn't know what you two're getting up to? I don't give a shit, you're both adults and he ain't hurting you. You ain't hurting him, either. But plenty of folks out there don't feel the same.

"Anyway. If you close the Gates, you'll still have nightmares. People you feel like you should've saved'll keep dying. It won't make you happy." Rufus shook his head. "'Cause people like us, hunters? We don't get happy endings." Rufus gestured to himself. "Hell, look at me. Aren't I proof enough? Can't drink, can't hardly walk, haven't left this house in years."

Looking down at his hands, Sam took a deep breath, then leaned most of his weight on his arms where they rested on the table, meeting Rufus's eyes.

"I don't want a happy ending," Sam told him with a small shake of his head. "I'm where I'm supposed to be, I'm hopefully gonna make things just a little better for everyone, and...I've got a partner I can see myself spending the rest of my life with. However long that might be." He licked his lips, then tilted his head. "Isn't that...what it's really all about?"

Rufus grunted softly, closed his eyes. He stayed that way for so long Sam squinted at him, wondering if he'd fallen asleep. But then he opened his eyes again.

"Well, good luck to you, I guess," Rufus said. "But you yourself? You're _bad_ luck. No way around it. I wouldn't have a problem with you personally if so much shit didn't tend to follow you. And if you hadn't tracked me down when I am capital-R Retired. So I'd like you to leave now."

Sam blinked. "But - "

"I did what I could for you," Rufus interrupted, annoyed. "That's a lot more than what I owe you, which is nothing. I gave you - " He checked the watch he was wearing. " - two hours of my time when I don't have all that much of it left anymore, and now I'm respectfully asking you to _go_."

It took a second, and felt like peeling stiff fingers back from around the handle of a knife, but Sam somehow managed to let it go. His questions about Bobby, his desperate need to know. He just wasn't sure how long he could hold the drive at bay. "Fair enough." Swallowing, he stood up and offered Rufus his hand. "Thank you."

Rufus took him to the door and closed it firmly behind him. Sam heard all the locks snapping into place one by one but honestly, he was more concerned with the sheriff's car parked right behind the Impala, and the two deputies talking to Dean.

"Hey!" He jogged immediately across the street. He could feel the whiskey sloshing hot in his stomach, and even though he wasn't used to it and hadn't eaten anything in hours, he was reasonably sure his size would keep it from affecting him. "What - what's going on?"

One of the cops turned to look at him. He had a weak chin and a crew cut, and a mean, hard look in his small eyes. Sam disliked him immediately, although of course he didn't let that show. He knew this kind of cop, was all too familiar with them.

"You know this gentleman?" the deputy asked, indicating Dean, who looked about half a second away from a double (or higher) homicide.

"Yeah, he's my brother." Just saying it made Sam feel dirty, but if one of them wound up getting arrested, it was a story that was more likely to get the other access than the truth. Also less likely to invite prejudice. "Is he in trouble?"

"Maybe." The cop (Deputy Martin, according to his nametag) hooked his thumbs behind his belt. "Got a couple calls about some guys parked in a suspicious vehicle for over an hour, making threats to residents."

"'Suspicious?'" Dean demanded. "My baby's clean, Barney. How 'bout you run her plates?"

"Sir, please cooperate." The other deputy, a woman with her highlighted hair in a tight bun, seemed more reasonable, but also willing to let her partner talk. Her tag said DAUGHERTY.

"What exactly are you guys doing here?" Martin asked it like he'd already decided, no matter what Sam said.

"Visiting our uncle." Sam indicated Rufus's house, and Martin peered skeptically past him.

"Rufus Turner," he stated flatly.

"You know him?"

"Get a noise complaint about him every couple months. Gunshots." He made a big show of examining Sam. "Not a whole lot of family resemblance, is there?"

"We're adopted," Sam explained with a shrug. He didn't have to fake the mild irritation in his voice.

"How 'bout him?" Martin pointed to Castiel, examining the deputies from the back seat with an unreadable expression on his face. "He adopted, too?"

"No, he's just our friend." Sam shook his head. "We're on a road trip, and we were just leaving." He shot a pointed "keep-your-mouth-shut" look at Dean.

"Awful strange time of year for a road trip," Martin commented. "And awful cloudy out to be wearing sunglasses." He looked down at Dean. "You wouldn't happen to be hiding anything, would you?"

"Glaucoma," Dean replied acidly.

"The're prescription. He lost his contacts." Sam put his hands up, appealingly. "My brother's got some... _serious_ anger issues, but he's not a danger to anybody. Promise. I'm really sorry if we've caused any trouble, but we're heading right out of town."

Daugherty seemed inclined to let it go. Martin did not.

"I can smell the booze on your breath from here." He was within inches of Sam currently, puffing his chest as if trying to compensate for the height Sam had on him.

"I'm...not driving."

"Back off, buddy," Dean warned, a bloody threat thrumming just under his voice.

There was a pause, and then Martin took a step back and stuck out a hand. "See some ID, please?"

By a massive stroke of luck, the license currently in Sam's wallet was not only from the same state as Dean's, but said his last name was also Smith. Martin had gone from prickly to pissed when he handed their IDs back.

"And how about you?" he demanded of Castiel who, of course, didn't respond. "Hey. I'm talking to you. Roll your window down." He rapped loudly on the glass with his knuckles, and Castiel stared up at him with intense eyes. "What's the matter, you on something? What'd you take?"

"Hey - " Sam started, but unexpectedly, Dean jumped in.

"Lay off him, man." Sam doubted anyone besides him could see how close it brought Dean to his tipping point, sticking up for Castiel like this. "He's...y'know." He touched his temple. "Special."

Daugherty nodded. Martin stared.

"Guess we'll just have to ask you all a few questions," he declared. "Elvis, Rain Man, outta the car. Sasquatch?" He turned to eye Sam with a vindictive smugness, reaching for the handcuffs on his belt. "Turn around, hands behind your back."

The bulb in every streetlamp on the road burst then.

Sam flinched. Glass rained down with a sound like windchimes, and dogs started barking. Martin whirled around.

"What the hell?!"

"Must've been a power surge," Dean commented. Sam looked at him, then Castiel, not sure which one of them had done it but surprised it hadn't happened sooner.

Martin glared murderously at Dean, taking a step towards the car. "Listen - "

"Wendell." Daugherty, unaffected by the shattering glass, interrupted. "Can I talk to you for a second?" She glanced at Sam. "I'm sorry, we'll be right back."

She and Martin retreated to stand near their car, where they launched into a heated argument. Sam picked out a few words, "write-up," "lawsuit," and "community image" chief among them. Eventually, Martin climbed in behind the wheel, looking like he was in a mood comparable to Dean's, and Daugherty came back over.

"You're free to go," she said, a note of apology in her voice. "Thanks for your time. Hope you enjoy the rest of your road trip."

"Yeah, of course. Thanks." Dean aggressively rolled up his window and the engine roared to life as Sam climbed in. As they pulled away from the curb, Sam turned to look at Dean. "Why didn't you drive around?"

"Oh, don't gimme that," Dean complained, grimacing. "You think I'm gonna leave you? It was hard enough to get off the sidewalk." He looked back at Sam. "After all that, Rufus better've given you a step-by-step map to wherever the hell Bobby is."

Sam took a deep breath, then swallowed. In the back seat, Castiel murmured, "You didn't need to tell him I'm special; seraphs are rather common. I could have handled the situation without a lie."

"Sam?" Dean prompted, an edge creeping into his voice.

"He...gave me this. For you." Sam pulled the ring out of his pocket and offered it to Dean. Driving, he stared at it for a long time.

"I appreciate the sentiment," he began, deliberately, "but you should've told him I've got a boyfriend. And Rufus ain't exactly my - "

"Just put it on." Sam shook his head. "He put, like, a spell on it or something."

There was a second, as Dean slid it onto his right ring finger (as Rufus had promised, it fit perfectly), that Sam panicked briefly about just what the ring was intended to do. What if it exorcised him? But there was just a flicking noise, and after a second, Dean let out a loud whoop and whipped his sunglasses off, actually grinning for the first time in days. His eyes were green, the solid black pulled back into his pupils.

"Holy _shit_ , that is so much better," he proclaimed, putting the sunglasses back in the glovebox. "You've got no idea how awesome this feels." He just guided the car down streets and around corners for a couple minutes, smiling to himself, getting out of town but not taking them in any particular direction. Sam was starting to think he'd forgotten why they came to Canaan in the first place when Dean cleared his throat. "So, this is pretty great. Makes me feel like Polly's not even here."

Sam frowned at Dean, who clarified. "Y'know, like a parrot? 'Cause he's got wings and he never shuts up?"

"I'm not a parrot." Castiel sounded concerned Dean might actually think he was. There was a brief pause, during which he might've gotten it, because he added, "Any more than you are a goat."

"A what - a _goat_?" Dean repeated incredulously.

"Horns," Castiel replied, dispassionate. "Irrational, selfish, and destructive stubbornness."

Dean licked his lips, looking in the rearview mirror, and his eyes turned black again. Only a flicker, though, half a second. He wrested his attention back to Sam with what looked like a tremendous amount of willpower. Sam hoped he hadn't picked up on how hard it'd been for him not to laugh at what Castiel said.

"What I'm trying to say is I hope you walked away from Rufus's with more than just this." Dean showed Sam the ring on his hand. It looked good there, plain enough not to clash with his calluses and the thick, middle-scored band robust enough not to be dwarfed by his thick fingers.

"I did, actually." Remembering the paper, Sam took it out of his pocket and unfolded it. He'd been expecting a tip about the Messiah mess, a book title or something. Or maybe a gruff apology note, though Rufus hadn't struck him as willing to be even that overtly sentimental. But it was a couple of numbers.

Sam stared at the paper, uncomprehending, for a long few seconds before realizing what he was looking at.

"You think there's a library around here?" Sam's head snapped up.

"Dunno. We could probably find one, though," Dean replied. "Why? Need your nerd fix?"

"No. Rufus gave me GPS coordinates." Sam lifted the paper. "I think I know where Bobby is."


	21. Chapter 21

_Feel like a jackass talking about boys in my goddamn journal. Feel like a jackass writing one in the first place, but Bobby got me started at an early age and wouldn't let me quit, and I guess it's too late now. Get the hell over it, he said. It's not just for girls, it's about learning from your mistakes and keeping track of what you know and maybe helping out anybody who reads it after you're gone. I get that, but anybody cracks this thing open when I'm dead, doesn't matter where I am, I'm coming back and ripping their lungs out._

 _Ought to just be writing about hunts, pretty sure that's what he does. But I guess deep down, I'm twirling a pigtail around my finger and sucking on a lollipop, putting hearts on my i's and hoping the football captain asks me to prom._

 _Fuck, I hate this._

 _Bobby doesn't know, course he doesn't. How in the hell would I tell him? "Hey Dad, you know how you keep bitching me out about all the girls in all the towns? Well, don't gotta worry about that anymore, cause actually I'm a queer. Except you do have to worry about it because I like both. Guys, girls. Cock and pussy. Yeah, apparently that's a thing."_

 _He'd be cool with it. Never gave a shit about anything like this, doesn't think it's a big deal, or a choice, or an illness. Wouldn't have to worry about him dumping me in the nearest nuthouse. Know he knows guys who happen to swing the wrong way. Girls, too. So do I. And he doesn't have a whole lot of patience for hunters who think it's a curse or some monster thing. He's a good guy. He'd be cool with it._

 _Only reason I'm being a little bitch about it is it's been years since I figured this out, and I'm still not sure I'm cool with it._

 _\- Personal journal of Dean Singer, c. 1978_

* * *

Motel rooms were interesting, sometimes. They were embarrassing, they were gross. Sam had seen hundreds, probably thousands, over the course of his life, all of them falling somewhere along a vast spectrum. Sometimes they just...were. Like this one. Lots of beige, easy-clean carpet, abstract watercolors on the walls. Sam barely even saw it.

This was the third room in as many days, something Sam knew but was tired enough to have to double-check against his own memory as he walked in. They were moving way more slowly than they had on the way up to Vermont, turning in earlier, spending less time on the road. Sam could hardly complain.

Sam stretched on his way to the bed, one elbow up, opposite hand tugging his bicep over. Dean, coming in behind him with their bags in hand, whistled when his back popped.

"Jesus," he commented. "That doesn't sound good."

"Feels a whole lot better, though." Sam turned and flopped backwards onto the mattress, which sagged and creaked but not too bad. He'd had worse. He groaned from low in his chest when the weight came off his spine. "It's been months. You'd think I'd be used to being in the car all day by now."

"I'm just impressed by how little you've been bitching." Dean dropped their bags by the foot of the bed. Sam had a forearm over his eyes, but could feel him standing there, looking down at him. Fingers met his knee, probed a small tear in the denim to affectionately touch bare skin. "Want me to feel out your back? Might be something I can do. Healing's never been way up in my wheelhouse but I've been getting better, with you around."

"I'm okay. You better save your mojo. Just, y'know...in case."

Rufus's coordinates, as it had turned out, were in Georgia. In the Appalachians, to be exact. Just south of the Great Smokey Mountains.

"You think Bobby's got another cabin out there?" Sam had asked a couple days earlier, frowning at a map.

"I didn't even know about the first one," Dean replied, dispassionate. Sam didn't bring it up again.

Getting to Georgia from Vermont meant traveling through the eastern part of the country. And that, unfortunately, meant other demons. A lot of them. They had to make frequent detours to give them as wide a berth as possible, which was part of the slow pace. There was always the risk of one, or more, they couldn't avoid, though. Demons like Jake, who'd learned how to hide themselves from a Knight's infernal radar, and maybe even an angel, too.

There were also hunters. They were harder to avoid, but easier to recognize. And to sneak past.

"It doesn't run dry too easy," Dean pointed out. "And it comes back quick when it does."

"Still." Sam's back wasn't going to stop hurting anytime soon, so he forced himself up and started taking his shoes off. Dean's fingers left his knee.

"What d'you want for dinner?" he asked in his "I don't care how big your lunch was" voice.

"Uh..." Sam squinted. He was hungry, he had to eat. But it was hard to identify something that sounded good through the fog of fast food and gas station fare that'd filled the last week. "Maybe pizza?"

"That weird one you like? With the mozzarella, and the tomatoes?"

"Margherita." Sam pried his unlaced boots free of his feet. "Yeah, sure."

"Awesome." Dean turned towards the door. "Be back in a bit."

"Wait," Sam protested. Of course he only thought of this now his shoes were off. "I'll go with you. Don't know what kinda pizza parlors they've got around here, but they've gotta be different than rest stops, or motel rooms...or the car." He was itching for a change of scenery.

Dean eyed him for a second, but it didn't take him long to make up his mind. "Yeah, I don't think so."

"Why not?" Sam did his best not to demand, or whine.

"We're pretty deep in enemy territory here, Sam." Dean waved a hand as if to indicate the entire region. "We just got finished putting down salt and stuff, and...I hate this, but you've got Clarence on guard duty outside. You're safe in the room." Dean shook his head. "Not so much somewhere else."

"Not even with you?" Sam raised his eyebrows.

Disappointingly, Dean didn't take the bait. "Not around here." He began to toss his keys up in the air and catch them, except they floated back into his palm like a jagged snowflake, slowed by a breath of telekinesis. Sam watched that with a knot in his stomach. "I'll go get your pizza. Unless you're in the mood to fight about this?"

There was a barely-there bite to his voice that promised to give Sam what he was looking for, if that was the case. Part of that was just Dean, and Sam, too, who they were together. Part of it was whatever lightning-and-battery-acid mixture Dean had been carrying in his veins lately, bitter and sharp and wearing his skin thin as paper.

He was better, much better. Still hadn't spilled what'd happened at the beach house, and Sam hadn't asked again, but he wasn't snapping or snarling every time he spoke any more. The ring Rufus'd given him to block the effects of Castiel's presence seemed to have helped the most. His tension still flared like a grease fire a few times every day, though. Maybe it was because they were driving through land crawling with demons and hostile hunters. Maybe it was because they were heading back south. Maybe it was something Sam couldn't even hope to get.

He let it go. "Get me, like, a personal one. I feel guilty every time I gotta toss half a large."

Dean nodded, satisfied. Maybe relieved, too. Sam heard him snark something at Castiel as he left, but didn't pick up a response before the door closed.

Sam turned on the TV and flipped through the slightly-fuzzy channels. _Casa Erotica_ \- he'd thought you had to pay for that. _Dr. Sexy, M.D._ A horror movie where the premise seemed to be you could only see ghosts through a cell phone camera, which was...actually, that might work, he should test it sometime. But the movie itself failed to hold his interest.

He realized before too much longer that he wasn't going to be able to stay awake on his own. Stepping into his boots and grabbing his wallet, Sam headed outside, trailing laces. He walked past Castiel on his way to the nearby vending machine. The angel, staring straight ahead, didn't even seem to see him.

Sam cleared his throat. "What, nothing to say?" he asked neutrally, back to Castiel. It seemed like he'd always had an unsolicited opinion about Sam or Dean or their relationship back in Texas, and at least part of the way up to Vermont. He'd been much quieter lately, though.

There was a flapping of fabric, as if Castiel had shook himself, and Sam glanced over his shoulder to see him blinking at him. "Did you say something?"

"Yeah." The handful of quarters that Sam'd been feeding into the machine as he scanned his options began to vibrate suddenly, jingling bright against each other. He snapped his fingers closed over them and squeezed, tight. "But it doesn't matter."

He guessed that was another thing that could be stressing Dean out. Sam had been having incidents since leaving Rufus's place. No visions, no violent telekinetic episodes. Just small things that felt like his soul misfiring. Loose junk rattling in the Impala's glovebox, a hairline crack snapping into a plastic diner glass, a circle of gravel around Sam bouncing maybe half an inch in the air and then immediately dropping at a rest stop. Dean hadn't said anything. Neither had Castiel. But he knew they had to have felt it, if not seen it.

Sam shoved the rest of the change in, punched the Diet Coke button. He grabbed the bottle, but paused next to Castiel on his way back into the room. He'd returned to staring blankly out at nothing, the light banked in his blue eyes.

Sam studied him concernedly, mouth opening partway as he tried to decide whether or not to say something. Castiel was obnoxious as hell and didn't get along with Dean; had been overly vocal about his dislike, actually. But he didn't seem keen on leaving Sam's life anytime soon. And maybe Sam just wanted a distraction from his own issues.

"Are you okay?" he asked Castiel. That startled him all over again, and Sam felt bad. "You've been...really out of it lately."

"I'm sorry." Castiel raised a hand to rub at his vessel's scruff. "It's...difficult to focus on outside stimuli when I'm communicating with other angels."

Sam blinked. "You've been talking to other angels?"

"Our long-distance communication is confined to non-verbal wavelengths," Castiel clarified. "It's also how we stay in contact with Heaven. We're able to send messages to the Host as a whole and to specific other angels, and only we can hear them, so the information is secure."

"So it's like," Sam started, gesturing, "like a radio."

Castiel cocked his head.

"Never mind." Sam did not feel like explaining that right now. "What're you guys talking about? I mean, can you tell me?"

Castiel pressed his lips together and exhaled loud through his nose. It was such a perfectly-human gesture it caught Sam by surprise.

"My garrison aren't pleased with me," he admitted.

"Why not?" Sam already had a hunch, honestly.

"They feel I've been far too lax with Dantalion, allowing him to stay so close to you," Castiel explained, something that could've come across as fatigue in his voice. "They also believe you should be learning how to use your powers already."

"Well..." Sam awkwardly opened his Coke. The bottle hissed when the seal was broken, which prompted a fascinated and puzzled look from Castiel. "Oh, it's. It's carbonated. The soda's under pressure, so it makes that noise when it hits the air." He pointed at the bottle, then went back to the subject at hand. "Anyway. It's not like we gave you much of a choice on either of those things."

"To my captain," Castiel began then, disgustedly, added, "the one Dantalion claims to be... _acquainted_ with, that isn't an excuse." Sam sipped his Coke. It still needled him every time Dean's Knight name came out of Castiel's mouth, but Dean had stopped correcting him and Sam was following his lead. "I believe she'd understand if I could explain the situation properly, but unfortunately, I haven't had an opportunity."

"She won't listen?" Sam frowned.

"Our superior...my direct superior, currently," Castiel explained. "He's in charge of the current Messiah project, was assigned to it by Michael himself and reports directly to him. My orders come from this angel, not Annanel, and I'm supposed to be speaking largely to him. And he is... _very_ eager for results."

"I'm sorry," Sam told Castiel. "I know how it is, dealing with somebody like that. Having 'em breathing down your neck." His father came immediately to mind, as did a lot of the hunters he'd worked with as a researcher. "I'm part of the reason you're going through this right now."

"You don't need to apologize, Sam." Castiel shook his head, lifting his hand. "I have some experience with humans. Not much, but some, and it's why I was chosen for this assignment. I'm confident in my methods." He eyed Sam. "My brethren don't have all the details, but I'm fully aware forcing you towards your destiny, or away from Dantalion, would be disastrous."

At least there was that. "Those other angels aren't gonna, y'know, come check up on you, are they?"

"Not yet. They're somewhat appeased by my talking you out of the other Trials." Sam sucked his teeth. "I don't see a reason to tell them that wasn't actually my doing."

"Right." Sam coughed, then took another drink of his soda. The silence stretched out, Castiel seemingly content to let it, then finally Sam, uncomfortable, offered, "After we've got this Bobby thing wrapped up. Maybe...maybe we can talk about what you said back on the beach, the getting my powers under control. Learning to use them."

Castiel seemed surprised completely by that, although not in a bad way. He scrutinized Sam, frowning, forehead furrowed between his brows. "Do you want that because it's the right thing for you to do, or to help me?"

Sam hadn't been expecting that, for Castiel to care enough to make the distinction.

"'Cause it's the right thing to do," he said eventually. "I owe it to myself, and Dean, to fix this." He also owed it to everyone else to get to a point where he could finish the Trials, but didn't say that. "I guess it's just a plus if it winds up helping you out, too."

Castiel nodded. Sam couldn't tell from his face how he felt about that answer.

"It's not gonna go away," Sam went on, "and you made it sound like it'd be really useful. What I can do with this." He swallowed the sour suggestion of fear and doubt on the back of his tongue. "It's time I started dealing with it."

Castiel nodded again, then told him, "That's a very wise decision, Sam." Sam wasn't quite sure if he was relieved, or proud, or if he was reading things into his tone that weren't even there.

He heard the always-familiar rumble of the Impala's engine then, and glanced over his shoulder to see it pulling into the snow-patched parking lot. Dean stopped in the space in front of their room, then climbed out, looking less than happy. He always looked like that these days, though, and he didn't seem nearly as mad about finding Sam talking to Castiel as Sam might've expected. Maybe he was getting used to him.

"Got your pizza." Dean lifted a red-and-white box. "Let's break it up."

Sam went back into the room, Dean following. It was at least a little bit of a relief to get in from the cold. When Dean set the pizza down on the table, Sam flipped the lid up to inspect it. It was small, and looked good.

"What was he talking to you about?" Dean asked as he pulled a chair out for Sam. "How getting nailed to a cross doesn't actually hurt that bad?"

"Uh...no." Sam put his Coke off to the side and picked up a slice of pizza.

* * *

They spent the next couple days following an eyelid-vein map of snaking, rundown back roads, most of which didn't even have names. It was agonizingly slow and absolute hell on the car's suspension. Dean bitched near-constantly about the second thing, but they were moving south, and staying far away from other demons. Castiel seemed impressed with Dean's commitment to that.

It was a beautiful day in rural Georgia, at the foot of the mountains they'd soon enter in search of Bobby. The sky was a rich, shocking, wake-you-up shade of blue, and it was warm despite the snow on the ground and in the trees. Warm enough to be comfortable sitting out on the Impala's sunwarmed hood in nothing but a light jacket.

They'd stopped at a roadside barbecue for lunch. Sam'd thought places like this closed down at the end of summer, but not this one, obviously. He had a box on his lap, two baked chicken sandwiches that'd come with potato wedges, coleslaw, and a soda in it, and was sitting with Dean as he ate, hips pressed together, boots dangling down over the grill. Castiel was wandering slowly around, taken with the surrounding forest.

There was a lot to worry about. Demons, Trials, working on his Messiah powers with Castiel, exactly what they'd find at the coordinates Rufus had given them. Right now, though, Sam was happy. The food was good, Dean was here, the Appalachians were gorgeous. It was peaceful in a way he'd been craving.

"Feel like I owe you an apology." Dean broke the silence unexpectedly, voice quiet.

Sam swallowed a mouthful of coleslaw, then looked at him where he was leaning back against the windshield, confused. "What for?"

"Haven't really been acting like myself lately," Dean began, and Sam shook his head.

"We talked about this. You told me what's going on." And he still wasn't sure he believed him, but he'd made up his mind to let it go, which might get hard if Dean wouldn't.

"No, I'm an asshole," Dean said stubbornly. "That's just who I am. Who I was before I picked these up, even." He pointed to his eyes, which were not currently black. "But I've been worse than usual for a while now, and that ain't fair to you.

"It's fine." Sam wiped barbecue sauce off his thumb with a napkin. "Look, don't even worry about it, I get it. We've both been under a _lot_ of stress lately, Dean, and god knows I've taken plenty out on you before."

Dean grunted. Sam thought, for a moment, that was the end of the conversation, but Dean changed the subject instead.

"Appreciate you tracking down Bobby." He was looking off into the trees, not at Sam, one hand behind his head and the other on his stomach. The heaviest thing he had on was a flannel, but it was probably balmy enough to justify that. "I know it's important to you, and I'm not gonna complain about finding out he's alive and okay." His green eyes flicked up to Sam's. "But I don't wanna see him if he's where we're going."

"Okay," Sam agreed, nodding. He understood. And this was Dean's dad. His choice. But, at the same time... "You're Bobby's son, though." He hoped he didn't regret saying this. "Soon as he figures out you're for sure who you say you are, he's gonna be thrilled to have you back in his life no matter - "

"That's not it," Dean interrupted, sounding slightly annoyed. Sam was momentarily knocked off track.

"Then...what's the problem?"

"I don't know, man, it's just - " Dean waved his hands in the air, frustrated. "How would we even introduce each other to him?"

"What're you talking about? He already knows both of us." Something clicked for Sam then, something he probably should've realized right away. He hadn't even considered it as an issue, though. He blinked. "Are you..." He shifted more towards Dean. "Dean, are you talking about coming out?"

Dean looked away, scowling. His pupils were boiling again. "My dad never knew I liked guys, if that's what you're asking."

"I am _pretty sure_ he knew, Dean," Sam told him in the least-patronizing voice he could muster.

"He couldn't," Dean said flatly. "I never told him."

Sam took a second, pushing his tongue into his cheek, trying to process that and figure out what to do next. He finally shook his head.

"Okay. He didn't know," he agreed. "But I knew the guy, and I honestly think he'd be fine with it. And even if he wouldn't, under _any_ other circumstances..." Sam made a face. "Seems like the demon thing _kinda_ outweighs the gay thing."

"Being a demon is unquestionably worse," Castiel called over to the two of them. They were probably far enough away from the barbecue place not to be overheard, but Sam shot him a look anyway; better safe than sorry.

"Who in the hell asked you?" Dean demanded, sitting up and twisting to face Castiel. Something _flick_ ed, and when he looked at Sam again, his eyes had gone fully black. "Look, I can't even worry about the demon thing. It's just too big. The gay thing's almost too big, too, but neither of 'em matter, 'cause I'm not talking to Bobby." He shook his head. "You can tell him all about me if you want, but I'm waitin' in the car."

Pushing on this, Sam could already see, wouldn't end well. Hell, he didn't even have a right to push. He was starting to regret what he'd said already. "All right." He coughed. "You're right, I'm sorry. You don't have to talk to him and it's none of my business why."

"Yeah." Dean's eyes cleared with a blink. "Thanks." He nodded to the box on Sam's lap. "You done?"

Sam glanced down at the remains of his lunch. "Uh, guess so."

"Awesome. Pitch it, and then let's get this show back on the road." Dean jerked a thumb at the nearest trash can, then slid off the hood.

Sam did the same, making the short walk to the can and dropping the box in. This road must not get much traffic in winter; there wasn't a whole lot of other garbage in the bag. He was just turning back to the Impala when his phone started to buzz in his pocket. He pulled it out and frowned at the outside screen, but it was a name, not an unknown number: Garth. He answered.

"Hello?"

"Sam!" Garth was one of those people with a genuine and unquenchable love for life. He was bubbly, enthusiastic, and frequently excited, which could wear on someone after a while. But all that was very different from the panic that filled his voice right now. "Oh, boy, I am so glad you picked up. Listen to me, you guys are in a lot of trouble."

"What?" Sam asked, bewildered.

"Sammy!" Dean called. Sam glanced at the car to see Castiel had already gotten in the back seat. Dean waved towards the passenger side, and Sam held up an index finger, turning away.

"Garth, slow down." A breeze with some frosty teeth in it carried the roasting-meat smell of the barbecue place to Sam. So soon after eating, it made him feel a little sick. "What's going on?"

"I was channel-surfing," Garth started. "I'm working a case in New Mexico and the motel has _cable,_ which is awesome, but...sorry. Anyway." Sam stood, boots in the snow, hand in his pocket, and wrestled a sigh back into his chest. "I hit a news station. One of the big ones." Garth paused. "It must've been Kubrik. He's the only one. And they said something about a cop up in Vermont, so I don't know if you guys've been - "

"What'd you see?" Sam demanded, although he got the feeling he already knew.

Before Garth could explain, the crunching of tires on ice and gravel made Sam turn. The barbecue stand sat at a sharp bend in the road, and three cars came around it in quick succession. Four-wheel drive, black and white, the fact they belonged to the sheriff's office painted large on their sides. The lights and sirens didn't come on until they were already in sight, shatters of red and blue ricocheting off the surrounding ice. A cook in a sauce-stained apron leaned over the stand's counter, then quickly ducked back inside.

Sam looked at Dean as the cars parked. He'd gotten in behind the wheel but was now scrambling out, then headed for Sam at a flat sprint that looked significantly faster than anything a human could've managed. Sam knew he'd teleport him as soon as he got a hand on him. It wouldn't look good, running from the cops. Especially not in a way they wouldn't understand. He wanted to figure out how to handle it differently, but Garth was freaking out into his ear, and officers were piling out of the cars with bulletproof vests on and guns out, and he couldn't think of anything. This seemed like the only option.

Feet from him, though, Dean faltered. Shock registered naked on his face, and he glanced around wildly like he was looking for something, hands coming up defensively. Sam was already swimming in adrenaline, and that dumped what felt like a gallon more of it into his bloodstream.

"Dean?" Sam took a step towards him. "What's the matter? Are they demons?"

"Hands up!" one of the officers barked. The sheriff himself, judging from the badge Sam saw on his vest when he glanced at him. "Back away from each other!" There were more than half a dozen of them, all with their guns trained on Sam and Dean. _"Now!"_

Sam obeyed, lifting his hands above his head and moving reluctantly backwards as Dean, agitated, replied, "I don't know. Thought I..." He trailed off, then looked at the officers, and one of his hands twitched further up. Sam thought immediately of Kubrik's house.

"I said, hands _up_!" the sheriff repeated, loud and angry. "This is your last warning, son!"

 _"Dean,"_ Sam grated, voice low and urgent. Running from the cops was one thing. Killing them was something else entirely. "Don't."

Dean looked at him, and Sam shook his head. A second stretched out long and painful, but Dean eventually raised his hands. Towards the sky, not the officers.

"Then what d'you wanna do, Sam?" he demanded.

It finally occurred to Sam to wonder where the hell Castiel was. He glanced at the car and felt shock fall icy down his spine when he saw it was empty. "I don't know, but you _can't_ \- "

"Tall sumbitch!" The sheriff interrupted him, and of course there was no question he was talking to Sam. "Drop the phone!"

Sam did, letting it fall onto the wet grass next to his boot. Garth was nearly hysterical on the other end; he could hear him even after the phone hit the ground. He wished he'd taken a second, before being told to get his hands up, to thank Garth for trying to warn them and tell him it'd be okay.

"All right," Sam called to the officers. "Okay. Don't shoot, we - we'll cooperate."

Unsurprisingly, that didn't convince the cops to lower their guns. They started moving towards them through the picnic area next to the barbecue stand, slow, cautious. It made Sam wonder what they'd heard.

"Sam Winchester?" the sheriff asked. "Dean Singer?"

"Yeah." Sam couldn't imagine lying would help anything now, if they were at the top of the Most Wanted list or whatever. Dean stayed stonily silent.

They reached Dean first. Grabbed him roughly, shoved him face-first down onto a nearby picnic table, gray-weathered and covered with slush, so they could cuff him. He didn't resist, which surprised, relieved, and troubled Sam. Then they got to him.

Icy wetness halfway between snow and water splashed up around Sam when he slammed onto the table, and he grunted at the impact. It almost immediately started soaking into his T-shirt, biting over the bare skin of his chest. He looked at Dean as handcuffs were slung around his wrists and ratcheted tight, freezing slush squelching up into his ear and hair, expecting to be grabbed and teleported out from under the officers' hands at any second. Honestly, that was looking better and better.

But Dean wasn't reaching for him. Instead, he looked shocked again, laying on the table, face inches from Sam's. And confused, and mad, and...he might've been scared, too, which had the first threads of panic drawing sharp and tight around Sam's heart.

"You're under arrest for the murder of Gordon Walker," the sheriff announced grimly. "Plus breaking and entering, impersonating a federal agent, false imprisonment, and a whole bunch of other charges we can get to later."

Securely cuffed now, Dean was hauled up first, then Sam. The sheriff scrutinized them as dirty water ran down the side of Sam's face and neck, then looked slowly around.

"We were advised to be on the lookout for three of you. Possible kidnapping."

 _Kidnapping_. That had to be Castiel. Where had his vessel come from? Had someone reported him missing?

"No," Sam said. A little roughly, after hitting the unforgiving wood of the table so hard. He had no idea where Castiel had gone, or why, or even if he was coming back. "It's just us."

The sheriff eyed him, then nodded, deciding either that he believed him or that it wasn't his problem. "You two've got the right to remain silent, then. Anything you say can and will be used against you in court..."

He kept rattling off their rights as they were frog-marched back to the cars, two cops holding onto each of them and the others with their guns at the ready. Sam glanced at his phone on the ground, which'd finally fallen silent, and hoped he could call Garth soon. Then he glanced at Dean, who mostly just looked mad now.

They frisked them near the cars, taking their angel blades, Sam's demon-killing knife, Dean's gun. The butterfly knife in Sam's boot, the coil of wire in Dean's pocket, their watches, their wallets. Sam even saw them pull Rufus's ring off Dean, bending his fingers back painfully to do it and ignoring the steel-melting glare he shot them.

"Just what in the hell are these?" One of the deputies, youngish, a cleft in his chin, seemed bewildered by the angel blades and the Kurdish dagger. Sam looked at him as he held them out to his colleagues.

"Who cares?" another deputy replied. This guy had a short, dark beard and a scar through his eyebrow. Sam was pretty sure he was the one who'd cuffed Dean. "Just bag 'em and let's get these assholes back to the station."

They moved to put them into the back seats of two separate cars. Sam pushed back against the firmly-guiding hands before he even realized what he was doing, and Dean balked outright.

"Aren't you taking us to the same place?" he demanded. "Just put us in one car."

"'Scuse me?" the sheriff asked him, incredulous. "Last I checked, _I'm_ not the one in handcuffs. Don't think you're in much of a position to be asking us for favors." Dean was shoved unceremoniously into a car. "And we heard to keep you away from each other much as possible."

"Probably wanna suck each other off," said the guy with the cleft chin, prompting a chuckle from the other deputies, then uselessly warned "Watch your head" right as Sam nailed his skull on the door frame.

He heard Dean snarl wordlessly and, blinking past stars, called to him, "I'm fine, it's okay." He dropped onto the molded plastic seat. "Let it go."

"Oughta listen to your boyfriend," an officer suggested.

"Any of you asshats tell me what's gonna happen to my car?" Dean returned, dripping with venom. Sam's door was slammed then, but he didn't imagine anyone answered Dean.

The sheriff climbed in behind the wheel, joined by what Sam was pretty sure was the only female deputy. He hadn't gotten a good look at her outside, and all he could see of her now was her short auburn ponytail.

His head throbbed, and he had to lean forward uncomfortably because of how his hands were bound behind his back. His wet shirt was cold against him. There was a screen of metal mesh between him and the cops. He was focusing on breathing, thinking clearly, not obsessing over how badly he wished Dean were with him. He had a lot of questions, but knew better than to ask. This wasn't the first time he'd been arrested and his father had given him a good script to follow with the police, one that was mostly silence. Smart officers gave out plenty of rope to hang yourself with, and stupid suspects did it.

The sheriff started the engine and pulled onto the road. The other two cars were behind them, and Sam wondered which one Dean was in. He tried to keep the fact he didn't know out from under his skin.

The sheriff and the deputy were silent to begin with, but then she turned to look at him. Sam saw a slice of her face, no earrings, little makeup. A mole at the corner of her jaw. Voice low, she said, "Sir. We sure we just picked up Dean Singer?"

"Sure as hell looks like him," the sheriff replied with a grunt. He was in his forties, maybe, close-cropped black hair barely beginning to silver, but gave off a much older vibe. Maybe it was the thick Georgia drawl.

"Looks like the pictures we got in the system," the deputy agreed. " _Just_ like the pictures. And the newest one we got's from back when most of us were in grade school. Or diapers." She paused. Sam doubted they knew he could hear them. "Sir, this guy oughta be in his fifties, and he's just _not_. I don't like this."

The sheriff exhaled, quiet for a second. Then he said, "Maybe he's got real great genes. Maybe he never skips the cold cream."

"Sir - "

"Corporal." The sheriff interrupted her firmly, respectfully. "I don't like it, either. But it's not gonna be our problem long. These guys're big fish and I already put out the word we got 'em. Somebody'll come for 'em today, tomorrow at the latest. All we gotta do 'til then's make sure they stay in their cells."

The deputy faced forward again, and neither she nor the sheriff said anything else on the way to the station. Sam kept thinking Dean or Castiel would appear in the back with him. They didn't. Maybe it was time to start worrying.

Hauled out of the car at the station, Sam was undeniably relieved to see Dean again. He saw something release in Dean's face when he caught sight of him. He must not have been a silent passenger; the deputies who'd been in his car looked like they'd spent the last hour walking around with pebbles in their shoes, and handled him roughly as they took the two of them into the station.

The building was located in the middle of the nearest town, older and, like most sheriff's offices Sam'd been in, could've been kept up better. The polished cement floors were cracked and the paint was faded.

The receptionist openly stared at them from behind her glasses as they were led past her and the currently-empty bullpen. She had a whole bunch of bobbleheads, mostly celebrities and athletes, lined up along the edge of her desk, and no sooner had Sam noted them than something spasmed like a sore muscle inside him. They all toppled over.

"Oh, jeez!" The receptionist hurried to pick them up. The sheriff stared hard at Sam, and he blinked back, embarrassed but not about to confess.

The station was small, only had three holding cells. They put Sam and Dean in two across from each other. Most of the officers left once they were locked away, leaving only the guy with the scar and the beard.

"Hands," he said shortly. Sam obeyed, turning and putting them through the opening in the door so he could take his cuffs off. When he faced forward again, rubbing sore wrists, the deputy was leaving, and Dean was still cuffed.

"Uh, hey," Sam blurted. "Excuse me? You forgot him."

The only response Sam got was a look the deputy shot him over his shoulder, blistering with so much raw contempt it landed like a physical blow. Then he left, door slamming behind him.

Shocked and uneasy, Sam stared at Dean, who stared back. He didn't look entirely thrilled with him, either.

"Great job," Dean congratulated, sarcastic. "Just some Grad-A decision-making back there, Sam."

The vitriol was unexpected and totally unwelcome. Sam chewed on his lower lip.

"Look, I'm...I'm sorry we're here," he started. "I'm sorry this happened. But are you seriously pissed I didn't want you murdering a whole bunch of police officers?"

"I'm pissed at all kindsa things right now," Dean replied with an angry shrug, one it couldn't've been comfortable to pull off in handcuffs.

"Well, y'know, it's not like you had to stand there and let 'em arrest you." Sam pointed out. He didn't want to get mad. It also didn't seem to be his choice. "Or sit through the whole ride here. You don't _have_ to stay in that cell." He flung a hand out and ignored the gritty, uncomfortable knowledge that there had to be something else going on here, that they would've been long gone already if Dean was capable of it.

 _"Actually."_ Dean might as well've been spitting razor blades. "I do." He turned around to show Sam his cuffs.

Sam hadn't gotten a good look at them before now. At first glance, they looked like standard-issue police handcuffs, but from how they were reddening and burning Dean's wrists, he doubted they were made of stainless steel. And there were dozens upon dozens of tiny glyphs and sigils and spell systems worked into the metal, most of which Sam couldn't even make out from here.

They were way more complex than the ones Gordon had had on Dean, more complex than any binding cuffs Sam had ever seen before. He felt his mouth fall open slightly with a little _pop_.

"Yeah." Dean turned back around, face hard. "We got a problem."

"The guy who put 'em on you." Sam swallowed. "The way he looked at me, he...he definitely knows who we are. You think he could be a hunter?"

"Right now, I'm sure hoping he's a hunter." Dean shook his head. "When I was coming for you, right before I got there, I thought I felt..." He hesitated, then trailed off, looking away.

"What?" Sam took a step closer to the bars of his cell.

"I don't wanna freak you out," Dean warned. "It was just for a second. Could've been a fluke." Going off his face, he couldn't even pretend to believe that. "But I could've sworn I picked up on a real heavy hitter back there."

"And by heavy hitter." Sam grabbed one of the bars. "You mean...?"

"A Prince," Dean clarified. "Of Hell."

Sam felt his head cock, a lot like Castiel's, and he fumbled over a few different words before he managed to ask, "Which one?"

"Not mine." Dean sucked on the inside of one cheek. "I know what Azazel feels like, but the others...I never met any of 'em. I don't even know all their names."

"And you're sure it was a Prince?" Sam pressed.

"Too powerful to be anything else. Had it long enough to be sure about that." Dean looked at the door, as if expecting one of the deputies to burst through it wearing a pair of yellow eyes. "Wasn't a Lord, wasn't Cain."

Sam squeezed the bar, cold, firm metal, until pain splintered across his knuckles. "You think it knows we're here?"

"Honestly, Sam, I got no idea." Dean shrugged again. "I'm on incognito mode, but I don't know it'd stand up to a Prince if one's nearby and, y'know, actually _trying_ to find me. The dickbag who cuffed me might be possessed, or working with it all on his own. And even if it can't feel me, and Sergeant Jackass's just one of Kubrik's special friends, there's a half-decent chance it might pick up on your - "

The fluorescent lights above them buzzed, crackling harshly all of a sudden, flickering in a violent strobing pattern. They both looked up. Sam bit the tip of his tongue as he struggled to get a grip on whatever inside him was shorting the wiring. He could feel it, but he couldn't find it, and he wasn't sure he could've stopped it even if he did. All he could do was wait for it to subside on its own.

When the lights finally evened out, he and Dean looked at each other again.

"Yeah," Dean said, no inflection. "Your _that_."

Sam swallowed, pained. He wanted to apologize, tell Dean he couldn't control it, that he was going to try as hard as he could to get it in hand, but he was sure he knew all that already. Saying it out loud would feel cheap, empty.

After a few seconds of silence, Dean sighed and looked away, shaking his head. He'd been cooling off since he showed Sam his cuffs, but now the last of the anger fell visibly right out of him.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Should've kept going, should've grabbed you and got you the hell outta there. This is my fault. 'S my job to protect you, and I couldn't do that."

"Dean..." Sam shook his own head as he leaned on the bars. "That's not your job. You're my boyfriend, not my bodyguard; you don't have anything to apologize for. We're gonna figure this out." Ten quiet seconds ticked by, and Sam's last words were so hollow they rang like bells in the air between him and Dean. He coughed, once, just to try and get rid of them. "Let's start by figuring out where we stand. So, one, we're pretty sure we've got a Prince of Hell in town."

"Plus a whole lotta other demons," Dean tacked on. "And I'm sure there's even more out there I can't feel. All those demons it runs with, they call that their Court."

"Right." Sam licked his lips. "The Prince may or may not be aware of us. There's not much we can do about that either way, 'cause we're in jail. At least one of the deputies out there is a hunter, a demon, or something else, and no matter what, he's definitely not on our side."

"Yeah. Understatement."

" _And_...can you do anything at all right now? Demon shit-wise?"

"With these on," Dean awkwardly shook his wrists, rattling the cuffs, "I'm lucky I can even feel other demons out there."

That was more or less what Sam had been expecting, unfortunately. "So you're outta the game unless we can get 'em off you. Plus, Castiel's gone."

Dean snorted at that, bitter. "Sure is. Probably caught the same whiff I did and went flapping back to Daddy fast as he could. You ask me, good damn riddance." He eyeballed Sam for a second. "You forgot about your Jesus powers going haywire."

"Oh, yeah." Sam didn't think he was familiar with the part of the New Testament where Jesus accidentally knocked over figurines and almost made lightbulbs explode. "So there's that, too." He drummed his fingers on the bar he was holding, nails tapping off it. He looked at Dean, and Dean looked back. "We gotta get outta here."

"Uh, yeah," Dean agreed, nodding exaggeratedly. "You think? Sitting around with our thumbs up our asses and waiting to see who comes and kills us first ain't exactly an option." He began to walk along the perimeter of his cell. "Problem is, I got no ideas. You?"

In answer, Sam ran a thumb along the underside of his belt until he found what he was looking for: a few small lockpicking tools, taped securely into place. The cops hadn't come across them when they were frisking him, which was kind of the whole idea. Actually, though, he was pretty sure they were supposed to have taken his belt and shoelaces when they locked him up. Maybe they wanted him hanging himself.

"Can you even reach the lock?" Dean asked skeptically as Sam, armed with two of the tools, approached the door. It would, admittedly, be an awkward angle. Getting his hands out between the bars, then back in towards himself...the exact opposite of how he was used to picking locks.

"Gonna have to," Sam replied, clearing his throat. "You said yourself we don't have any other options."

It was hard right off the bat. Sam couldn't get his elbows through; even his knuckles were close, so he had to stand with his arms in tight to his body and his wrists bent at an angle so sharp it hurt. His movements were clumsy because of that and the fact he was working blind and backwards. It was hard to get the tools into the hole, harder to find the tumblers. He kept sliding off and out. Dean, up on the toes of his boots, was fixated, peering down with his full lips slightly parted. At any other time, that might've gotten Sam's engine running.

"Careful," Dean warned. "Don't pop anything outta joint."

"Yeah, I got it." Sam's eyes flicked to him from his own hands. He was starting to wonder if the sheriff's department had taken the money they could've used on the rest of the building and poured it into these cells, because this seemed harder than it should be, even with everything else considered.

Something like ten minutes passed with only the click and scrape of metal on metal. Sam's hands'd begun to shake with the effort, which wasn't making things easier. Dean was back down on the balls of his feet.

"Sam." Dean's voice was flat and not quite commanding, but close. "You're gonna hurt yourself. Knock it off."

"No, I can - " A powerful cramp suddenly lanced up the inside of Sam's left forearm. His hand seized, and the tool tumbled out of his fingers, chiming loudly when it hit the cement floor. It skittered too far away for him to reach through the bars. _"Shit!"_

Sam stepped back, shaking out his left hand, tightly gripping the tool he still had in his right now. He turned away from Dean and shoved the pick into his pocket, then raked both hands backwards through his hair. He pulled in a deep breath but it didn't seem to help. He felt useless, weak. Couldn't even pick a simple goddamn jail cell lock and his leg was killing him all of a sudden.

Something in him unhinged for the third time in what had to be around an hour. He heard the dropped tool begin to vibrate behind him, then it zipped along the floor and there was a loud, grinding _crunch_. He turned, hesitantly, to see it embedded halfway into the cinderblock wall of the third, empty cell, and humming like a tuning fork.

"So I'm gonna say it gets worse when you're stressed," Dean stated once the tool had finally quieted down. Sam dropped his hands, arms swinging, and blew out the breath he'd apparently been holding.

"Can't even do anything useful with it." He shook his head. "Castiel offered to train me, back at the beach house, and I said no." He threw up his hands and turned away again. "Like an idiot."

"Hey, now, only one of us can have a pity part at a time," Dean said with forced humor. "And it's my turn right now." Sam closed his eyes, knowing the soup of guilt and fear and self-loathing filling up all his hollow spaces at the moment would speak for itself. A second later, Dean quietly said, "Speaking of Cas. Think you oughta call him now."

Sam opened his eyes and glanced over his shoulder, frowning. "Seriously?"

"For whatever reason, and it's probably a shitty one, don't get me wrong, he's got a stake in whether you live or die," Dean replied. "Me hating him doesn't change that. Don't know for sure why he split, but there's a good chance he'll come back if you pray to him. We are rapidly running outta options here, man. And he's a pain in the ass, but I'd way rather deal with him than the Prince." One corner of his mouth twitched, just for a second. "Better off with the angels than dead."

"They usually mean the same thing," Sam pointed out softly.

"Not in the mood for the Encyclopedia Brown act right now, Sammy." Dean jerked his head at the ceiling. "Call him."

"Right." Angels could hear their own names when spoken or thought with purpose - prayers. It was one of the few things Sam knew for sure about them. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. "Castiel. Hi. It's me...uh, it's Sam. Sam Winchester." He could damn near feel Dean rolling his eyes. "So, I'm...not quite sure where you went, but we're kind of in a lot of trouble here, and we don't really have a way out. So if you could...come back, then that'd be great. We'd really appreciate it. Thanks."

Sam opened his eyes, raised his head, turned around. He'd expected to hear wings halfway through, or at the very least right when he finished. It was still just him and Dean, though. They waited a minute, two. Five. As it ticked closer to ten, Dean snorted softly and walked away from the front of his cell, head shaking.

"Should I try again?" Sam asked uncertainly.

"No, no, I'm sure he heard you. He just ain't comin'." With no warning, Dean shouted at the ceiling. "What happened to your fucking _duty_ , you dick with wings?! Wish you were half as good at sticking around as your goddamn _captain_ is at sucking - "

"Hey." Back up at the front of his own cell, hands on the bars, Sam cut Dean off. He didn't want a cop coming in to check on them. Or a pissed-off rant about whatever Dean had done with Annanel.

"I don't wanna hear we're gonna fix this." Dean was full-on pacing now, bootsteps loud and angry. "I don't wanna hear it's gonna be all right. 'Cause it ain't. This is bad, Sam, it's _so_ bad, and I can't _do_ anything."

"I know," Sam agreed quietly. "I know, Dean. I can't, either. Just..." He rested his forehead briefly against the cool bars. "Come sit with me."

"What?"

"Like this." Sam sat down right where he was, leaning against the door, as close to Dean as he could get without leaving his cell. Dean followed his example a second later, lowering himself a little awkwardly because of his handcuffs.

Sam shrugged out of his jacket and flannel, both wet from the slush on the picnic table. He plucked at his damp tee, fanning it away from his skin where it'd been clinging cold and itchy. He and Dean watched each other. Dean's eyes kept flickering black.

"I promise I'll do whatever I can to keep you safe," he said quietly.

"I know."

"I love you. Don't say it enough."

"You say it plenty." Sam smiled at him. "I love you, too."

A few seconds passed. Dean chuckled a little, bleakly. "Y'know, feels almost like old times. Back at your cabin. Course, only one of us was in a cell then."

Sam sucked quietly on his teeth. "I'm sorry I gave you a hard time about coming out to Bobby." Dean didn't reply. "That's not...it's a big thing."

"I don't actually care that much," Dean responded. "Way bigger deal to me back when I was human."

"I wasn't out to _my_ dad, before he died." Sam rubbed his left wrist. "And he might've known, but I doubt it. He didn't...pay a whole lotta attention to me outside of hunting. Unless something started interfering with it."

"He didn't care about, like, school?" Dean asked him.

"Uh, he wanted me to drop out soon as I was old enough," Sam answered with a little laugh. "We fought about that all the time. How much easier it'd be if I weren't in school, how...me going was a distraction." A betrayal. A commitment to something outside of killing monsters and saving lives, an investment in a future Sam wasn't allowed to want unless he was soulless and heartless and fine with being useless. A waste of time.

"Wow." Dean's cuffs clinked. "My dad damn near stroked out when I withdrew so I could hunt full-time." Thoughtfully, he added, "Not sure he ever really forgave me for that."

"Bobby...was a huge reason I stayed in school." Sam let go of his shirt. "And he knew. That I liked guys. There was never a big, formal discussion or anything, but he took it in stride." He looked at Dean. "He was really important to me."

Dean was quiet for a long time, and Sam wondered if he shouldn't've made him talk about this. He knew his memories hurt and that his dad was an especially sore subject. But then he heaved a sigh, breaking the silence. "Me, too."

At that point, the flapping and gust of wind that came then was completely and utterly unexpected.

Sam scrambled to his feet, turning to stare at Castiel where he'd appeared in the middle of his cell. He looked harried, even more rumpled than usual. He opened his mouth to speak, but Dean beat him to it.

"Oh, hey, look who it is," Dean proclaimed, loud and sarcastic as he struggled up. With his ring gone, his eyes had automatically flooded black. "You have a nice smoke break, Birdbrain?"

Castiel eyed Dean for a moment, then returned his focus to Sam.

"I apologize," he told him, voice gravelly as always. "After our last encounter with the police, I didn't believe my staying would be very useful to anyone."

"How _selfless_." Dean tipped his chin up. Castiel's jaw set as he willfully ignored him.

"I heard your prayer. I would have come sooner, but this area is...filled with demons. I've been eliminating some of the most immediate threats."

"You've been _killing_ them?" Dean demanded, incredulous. "Jesus. Your halo on too tight or something? Cutting off blood to your brain? You think it's not gonna notice and get pissy about you hacking and slashing your way through its Court?"

Castiel finally acknowledged Dean. Reluctantly, looked like. "'It?'"

"There's a Prince of Hell." Sam answered for Dean. "He didn't feel it for very long, but it's gotta be around here somewhere, especially if there are so many other demons."

Castiel turned searchlight eyes on Sam, wide and backlit with faint Grace. Then he strode straight for him. "We have to go. _Now_."

"Wait!" Sam backed up. He hit the bars all too soon. "Not without Dean."

Castiel looked at Dean, who shook his head. "Just get him outta here. Seems like you and me are on the same page for once, 'bout where we want him to be when that thing comes rolling through." Castiel reached for Sam again like the matter was settled, and Sam once again moved.

"No!" He glared at Dean. "Shouldn't you and _me_ be on the same page? About me not going anywhere without you?"

"Sam, I can take care of myself," Dean started.

"Not right now you can't." Sam looked at Castiel and gestured to Dean. "They put binding cuffs on him. He can't teleport right now, can't use telekinesis, nothing."

The look Dean gave him suggested he hadn't wanted Castiel to know that, but Sam wasn't sure how he'd expected to keep it from him. He was obviously handcuffed and obviously cut off from his powers. Sam went on, talking directly to Castiel. "You said you knew taking me away from him'd be 'disastrous.' Remember?"

Dean seemed caught off-guard by that. Castiel took a moment, face blank, then slowly shook his head as he looked at Dean.

"Zachariah will not be pleased," he murmured. Sam assumed that was the asshole boss he'd mentioned a few days back. "He never is, though."

With an unseen flutter, Castiel moved into Dean's cell and reached for his cuffs. Dean didn't look at all happy about it, maintaining eye contact with Sam the whole time (he thought), but he turned to give the angel access to his wrists. Castiel paused, though, with his hands inches from the bracelets.

"Where did these come from?" Castiel glanced at Sam.

"Uh...I don't know." Sam shrugged, frowning. "One of the cops who arrested us. Why?"

"They've been forged with Enochian sigils." Castiel dropped his hands, took a step back. Dean turned to look at him. "Powerful ones. They could render a lower-level angel fully inert." He looked troubled. "They might even work as well on me as they do on Dantalion. I can't touch them; I'm not sure how to remove them."

Something cold and sickening crystallized low in Sam's stomach. He'd designed a couple pairs of demon cuffs, forged a few himself, and seen plenty of variations out in the community. None of them had included Enochian. There'd been no need. He didn't know where a hunter would've gotten ones like this.

"Well." Dean cleared his throat. "Guess that answers our question about whether or not our guy's working with the Prince."

The door opened unexpectedly. Sam glanced at Castiel, then stared at him when he didn't disappear. Dean closed his eyes and Sam tensed as two deputies, the woman and the guy with the cleft chin, walked in. Their vests were gone, so he could see their nametags now: ABERNATHY and SWAIM.

He waited for them to react to Castiel, for the guns to come out, the yelling to start. But...they looked right at him and didn't react. It was like he was invisible.

"Winchester," Abernathy said shortly, gesturing with one hand and reaching for the cuffs on her belt with the other. "C'mere. Gimme your hands."

Sam complied, still confused. As they re-cuffed him, Dean demanded, "Where're you taking him?" When the deputies didn't answer, he must have turned to Castiel. "You can't let 'em take him."

"Who's he talking to?" Swaim mumbled to Abernathy. Sam only heard him by virtue of being so close.

"Ignore him." Unlocking the door, Abernathy waved Sam out with a hand on her taser, then took hold of his bicep. Swaim grabbed the other arm.

"He's in no danger," Castiel told Dean as Sam was led away from his cell. "Sam." Without thinking, Sam looked at him. So, great, now they thought he was crazy, too. "I'll continue trying to free Dantalion; I'll be close by. I'll retrieve you immediately if the situation changes. You have my word as an angel of the Lord no harm will come to you."

"Right, 'cause that's worth _so_ damn - " The closing door cut off the rest of Dean's jab.

As they walked him down the hallway, against his better judgment, Sam swallowed, then asked, "Where... _are_ you taking me?"

Swaim answered, ignoring the warning look Abernathy shot him. "Some big ol' FBI hotshot wants to talk to you. Can't be a field agent, but...y'know. Real important. Sheriff knows him, actually. Guess he stays 'round here."

They brought him to what was probably the station's only interrogation room, cuffed him to the stainless-steel table, and left. Sam glanced around. Yellow walls, one-way mirror, security camera. He saw, though, that its little red light was off.

The door on the other side of the room opened and a woman walked in. Sam's age, brown hair in a bun, dark, conservative suit that fit her well. She was gorgeous in a sly, almost fox-like way, and wearing a lot more makeup than Abernathy. As she moved the other chair at the table out of the way, she smiled at Sam.

"Are you the, uh...'FBI hotshot?'" he asked, tipping his head back some.

"Oh, no." She shook her head. The British accent was a surprise. "Not me."

Returning to the door, she held it open so an old man in a wheelchair could roll himself in. He was wearing a suit, too, gray-and-white hair slicked back, beard impeccable. Sam should've recognized him right away. He'd just seen him, in a vision. But he'd been a lot scruffier then, so it took a second, and when it clicked, the single light above the table started buzzing.

"Bobby," Sam said weakly.


	22. Chapter 22

**I've broken things up more, so that what was thirty-eight chapters is now forty-one. Part of it was because stuff needed more space to happen in, part of it was because I needed to draw out some fluff.**

 **We deserve this. The last eight chapters (including this one) have been super tough for everybody involved. Especially me. I'm the real victim here and we all know it. Me and my editor, sweetyaoi, who is a fabulous beta and even better friend. So I'm going to enjoy writing the next two chapters, which go from "moderately sweet, moderately serious" straight to "will put diabetics into a coma, read at your own risk," sweetyaoi can enjoy proofing them, you can enjoy reading them, and these bastardized versions of beloved characters I've created can enjoy living them. As much as they can, considering they're not real.**

 **It won't last but let's all revel it while we're able to, shall we?**

* * *

 _The temptation is probably always going to be there. What we do is hard, and even outside hunting, there's so much you might never be able to have on your own. There might even be times when you feel like you don't have any other choice._

It's the right thing to do, _you might reason._ For what I'm getting, it's a fair deal. Even monsters have to abide by their own rules. _I'm not going to condemn you for sealing deals or signing contracts or shaking on it, because everybody's circumstances are different, and sometimes it really is the right thing or the only option. We'll go over some basic negotiating tactics later on, and some tips to make sure you get the best possible deal if you absolutely have to make one._

 _But you should know djinni don't grant wishes, they just induce hallucinations. Demons do give you exactly what you ask for, but then Hell gets you for eternity, and you wind up joining their ranks. As for other monsters, their word tends to be only as good as their appetite or their morals, which can be depressingly human._

 _Just to sum up: making deals with monsters is almost always a bad idea. You'll wind up getting burned._

 _\- "Making Deals: Dos and Don'ts," posted on website of Sam Winchester_

* * *

The woman closed the door again, standing next to it with her hands folded. Sam stared in shock, kind of sick, kind of numb, kind of cold as Bobby rolled himself up to the table. He looked at the light going mildly haywire above them, then back down at Sam.

"Christo," he said calmly, in that same gruff voice Sam remembered.

When Sam didn't respond to that beyond his eyebrows drawing together, Bobby glanced away, shaking his head and sighing through his nose.

"Balls," he muttered under his breath, then he waved the woman forward. Crouching, she pulled a battered-looking tacklebox out from where it'd been stored under Bobby's chair. She opened it on the table. It was full of a messy arsenal of blades, vials, charms, packets, hex bags... "Sure you don't mind if we run a few other tests."

"O-of course not." Sam sat back, hands spread flat at the ready on the table, and the light stabilized some.

"Don't worry 'bout the cops. Cameras're off." Bobby watched the woman press the flat of a silver knife to Sam's skin. It didn't burn, of course. "No one's watching." He nodded to the one-way mirror. "They were only too happy to comply with all that when I asked 'em. Guess you ain't too popular these days, huh?"

Sam couldn't even begin to think of a response to that. He was still in shock, and too many other emotions to identify were starting to bubble up. Like gas from the sea floor.

The woman sprinkled holy water on him, salt. She pricked him to see the color of his blood. Snapping on a pair of rubber gloves, she peered in Sam's mouth with a penlight, examining his tongue, throat, gums, teeth. Then she went to his eyes. There were more tests after that, some Sam didn't even recognize and filed away a reminder to look up later. He sat patiently through every single one.

"He's clean," the woman announced once she was finished, stripping the gloves off.

"Well, then." Bobby cleared his throat. "Guess you're you."

"Yeah."

"Lemme show you I'm me." Bobby gestured and, professional and efficient, the woman ran through all the tests again on him. He didn't react to any. Sam hadn't thought he would.

With all that out of the way and the woman gone back to standing by the door, Bobby leaned forward, arms on the table, fingers laced together. He looked old and tired, chronically sleepless in the way of someone who had so much to do he might not even get to rest when he was dead. Sam remembered him looking like that before he disappeared, too, but not this bad. He was pretty sure he'd been angrier back then. Maybe that'd fueling him.

"I owe you one hell of an explanation," Bobby started. "I know. And you'll get it, or as much of one as I can offer." He studied Sam. Short hair, hunting clothes. "Feel like I deserve an explanation from you, too." He coughed, and it sounded surprisingly healthy, dry and strong. "All I need from you right now, though, 's where to find the demon you were booked in with."

"Uh, still in his cell." Neither Bobby nor the woman had been expecting that, Sam could tell. "One of the deputies is a hunter or something, he put special cuffs on him. They're not normal demon cuffs. But they've got all his powers on lockdown anyway." Sam paused for breath. "Even if he could teleport right now, he wouldn't've left without me."

"That right." Sam couldn't get anything from Bobby's tone.

"What d'you want with him?" Before he'd even finished asking the question, Sam knew the answer, could see it written clearly in every line around Bobby's eyes. "You're gonna kill him." The light's buzzing ratcheted back up again.

"I know the vessel," Bobby stated.

"Yeah, I know you do."

"I owe it to him," Bobby began, closing his eyes, "to at least put him to rest, and - "

"Bobby, Dean isn't possessed." Sam interrupted, couldn't help himself as his hands folded loose into fists on the table. Bobby hadn't ever shocked easy and he didn't now, face staying stony in the exact same way Sam saw from Dean all the time. A muscle jumped, though, in his jaw, visible even through his beard. "He _wasn't_ possessed. He was murdered, for trying to do the Trials of God. To close the Gates of Hell."

Bobby's mouth twisted around an involuntary word, one that looked a whole lot like "idjit." The woman was looking at him. Sam went on.

"He came back as a demon. A Knight of Hell. And he found his old body, that's his vessel." Sam took in a deep breath. "If you...remember Gordon Walker, he caught him, and brought him up to my cabin. I found out who he was." Sam went to run a hand through his hair, not thinking, and of course the cuffs caught him with a harsh bite to the wrist. "I know how it sounds. But I've been around a _lot_ of demons, and Dean...doesn't act like any of them."

The flickering was slowly smoothing out above them, something hackled up inside Sam settling back down as he talked.

"We've been trying to finish what he started, as far as the Trials go," Sam explained. "But we've hit some, uh, pretty significant snags, so we came down here to." He felt himself barely smirking. "Try and find you, actually. 'Cause we got some good intel on you being alive, and where you were. Obviously, it was..." Sam gestured to Bobby, much as the cuffs allowed. "Really good intel."

There was a good-sized pause. Bobby licked his lips before he responded. "You gonna tell me who gave me up, then?"

"Rufus. Turner." Sam wished he'd been offered coffee, or water. His mouth was dry. "It was Dean's idea to go talk to him."

"Course." Bobby snorted. "That son of a bitch." He leaned back in his chair some, like he needed to catch his breath, and looked over his shoulder at the woman. She didn't say anything and her expression didn't change much. "Well, Sam, this is a whole hell of a lot to take in, which I'm sure you know." Bobby met Sam's eyes, held his gaze. "Can you prove any of it?"

"No." Sam had to admit that, softly. He looked down at his hands, nails cropped as hunting-short as his hair to keep dirt and blood out from under them, getting to the point where they needed to be cut again. The light kept on flickering. Even after a whole two or three minutes of deliberation, it felt like a betrayal when he glanced up at Bobby again and told him, "But Dean can. If you talk to him."

Bobby squinted at Sam, chin going up as he folded his arms over his chest.

"He doesn't wanna talk to you," Sam continued, which made it sound like Dean wasn't who he said he was and was afraid of being called out by somebody who'd known the real Dean Singer. He knew that wasn't it, but Bobby didn't. "And I get that. I wouldn't make him do this if I could think of any other way to show you he's for real. Then, also..." Sam swallowed. "I've thought this for a while, but especially since you came all the way down here for him, you deserve to know for sure."

Bobby didn't say anything for a long time, just looked at Sam. His eyes, Sam realized, hadn't changed at all, still sharp, bright, and clear as a prairie sky. And now he knew Dean, he could see him in Bobby. A touch of green in the blue of his irises, an echo in the shape of his ears and his mouth. Sam wondered if Dean took more after his mother. If it'd hurt Bobby to look at him as he grew up. Even Sam, who'd gotten nearly everything from his dad, had enough of his mom in his face and voice and soul to be a study in grief. His father had told him so when he'd been teetering on the edge of blackout drunk once.

The woman was looking at Sam, too, and Sam wondered who she was. He couldn't decide if she looked familiar or not. Maybe. He was at least reasonably sure she wasn't related to Bobby.

"Think you owe me talking to him, at least, before you kill him," Sam said quietly after a mile-long silence. "Along with that explanation." Maybe he should've felt about playing that card, but he couldn't regret trying to save Dean's life.

"All right, fine." Bobby nodded. "I'll talk to him. For you." His jaw clenched. "Can't promise nothing, though. Not if he lies, or if he won't say anything."

"Yeah, that might happen." Sam coughed, straightened. "I'll get one thing outta the way for him, at least: we're together."

The woman's brows rose. Bobby squinted again.

"We're...a couple," Sam clarified. "Maybe I should've let him tell you that, but it seems like that's the main thing he's afraid to talk to you about."

Bobby snorted again. "Course. 'Cause this whole thing wasn't weird enough already."

With no cue Sam saw, the woman left the interrogation room. He wasn't sure how much time they had left, and talking about his and Dean's relationship probably wasn't the best use of it; after all, it'd be weird from Bobby's perspective even if Dean was still human, with him having more or less parented both of them. Sam took a deep breath, tapping his fingers on the table, then looked at Bobby.

"Why'd you leave?" he asked, like he'd wanted to since he found out he was alive.

Bobby sighed through his nose.

"We'll get to that," he promised. "All of it, no matter what. I'll see you again in a while, and I know exactly how much I'm asking of you here..." The door behind Sam opened, and he glanced over his shoulder to see Abernathy and Swaim. "But I need you to just sit tight and take care of yourself 'til then."

Abernathy got Sam off the table, pulled him up and re-cuffed him. Sam felt like he should say something else, was desperate to, actually, but the best person to convince Bobby not to kill Dean was Dean. He let himself be taken out of the room and back down the hall, to the holding cells. Thunder rumbled outside. Unusual for winter; had to be because of all the demons in the area.

As they got closer, he heard a muffled ruckus that instantly crystallized into Dean shouting and banging on the bars when Swaim opened the door. Must have some soundproofing. Of course they wouldn't want to have to listen to suspects throwing tantrums while they were trying to work.

"Sammy!" Even without any empathic abilities, Dean's relief was palpable as they put Sam back in his cell and uncuffed him. Castiel was still there, a good distance from Dean inside his cell. "You okay? What happened?"

"I'm fine, but...Dean." Sam turned around to face him once the door was locked and the handcuffs were gone. Dean, he saw, still had his eyes closed, hiding the blackness from the cops. "It's him. And he wants to talk to you. You're gonna have to, I'm sorry."

Dean's face smoothed right out, all feeling draining away.

"Shut up," Swaim snapped at both of them. To Dean, he said, "Now, you, h - " He stopped, confused, apparently only now realizing Dean was already cuffed. He got past it quickly. "Well, c'mere."

"Try anything and you're getting tased," Abernathy told Dean harshly as they opened his door and grabbed his arms.

Sam swallowed, standing close to the bars, and watched them take him away. Would he know if he died? He shouldn't be worrying about it. Not even Gordon had been able to figure out how to kill a Knight, and the lore said the only thing that could unmake them was what'd carved them out of a human soul in the first place. The Mark-First Blade coupling contained in Cain.

Once they were alone, Castiel joined Sam in his cell. The gust off his wings had goosebumps prickling up and down Sam's arms, making him realize how cold it was in here. His flannel and jacket had to be dry by now. He picked them up off the floor, shrugged them back on, and sat down on the metal bench in the corner of the cell. To wait. Since he couldn't do much else.

"I wasn't able to free Dantalion," Castiel said. "As I'm sure you saw. There are multiple layers of binding and protection to the handcuffs."

"It's fine," Sam assured. "It's enough you tried. Worst-case scenario, if we've gotta run, we can fly through and grab him and figure out the cuffs later." Castiel didn't really react to that suggestion. Memory jogging, Sam changed the subject. "So, uh, when they arrested us. They mentioned thinking we'd kidnapped somebody." He looked up at him, standing nearby. "What's the situation with your vessel, exactly?"

"Angelic vessels are rare," Castiel replied. "Even for members of a common caste, such as myself. We aren't like demons, capable of inhabiting any available flesh and able to force our way in without consent."

"Right, yeah. I know that," Sam agreed, nodding.

"My current vessel is a devout man of an important bloodline." Looking down at his body, Castiel brought his hands to his chest. "He invited me in, and once my work is done, he'll be returned to his family and his life." He looked at Sam again. "Beyond that, it isn't anything you should be concerned about."

"Okay. Fair enough." Sam looked at the door. No Dean, no movement, not even any distant, filtered noise. "So...any updates on the Prince? Or any other demons?"

"I've confirmed the Prince's presence, but I don't believe that it, or any members of its Court, are particularly close to us," Castiel answered. "But I can't even be sure of that."

"Great." Unseen ants marched along Sam's spine.

"Dantalion is likely safe with Robert Singer," Castiel pointed out after a short pause. "We should really get you out of here."

"We can't," Sam said immediately, getting to his feet. "Bobby's here to kill Dean. And, I mean, I _hope_ he's not...actually gonna do that, but I think we need to stick around 'til we know for sure." He put his hands in his pocket and looked at the door again. "Also, I'm not going anywhere without either of them. Sorry."

Castiel pressed his lips together.

"I get why you're freaking out," Sam told him, gently. "I am, too, honestly. But unless the Prince is coming for us right this second, I wanna stick around and let this whole thing play out."

"Fine." Castiel didn't seem overly pleased or surprised. "If you insist on staying, though, I'm going to have to take some measures to keep you safe." Moving over to the wall, he planted a hand on one of the cinder blocks. Warding flowed out instantaneously from his touch, scraping and cracking, dust sifting down in a widening pattern. Sam's mouth opened. Concentric circles of Aramaic, Hebrew, and Latin flowed over the floor, past the bars, carving themselves in shallow under Sam's boots and Castiel's dress shoes. Structured pentagrams bloomed, scorpions, Petrine crosses.

It took less than ten seconds, a pulse of protection centered on the angel. Dust hung silver in the storm-dim light coming through the room's tiny windows. Sam turned slowly, taking in everything on the floor and the wall inside the cell. It was some kind of heavy-duty hybrid, multiple devil's traps and simplified Circles of Solomon linked together with other protective symbols and prayers worked artfully in. Sam's immediate instinct was to copy it down, though he knew he wouldn't do it justice.

 _"Wow,"_ he managed eventually, amazed. He looked at Castiel, who'd dropped his hand. "Would I - when I've got my powers under control." Sam gestured with both hands. "Will I be able to do stuff like this?"

"Of course."

"Wow," Sam repeated, and ran a hand through his hair. It was starting to grow back where Dean had sheared him. "I am...definitely not there yet." Embarrassed, he swallowed. "I've been having these. Little outbursts. Not visions, telekinetic stuff. Dean's picked up on it and I'm sure you have, too." He looked into the third cell. "I kinda javelined a lockpick into the wall earlier. Over there. Didn't mean to." Looking at Castiel again, he straightened up. "Can...you start teaching me now?"

Castiel blinked, owl-like. "Right now?" He looked around. "Here?" He regarded Sam, frowning. "Are you sure?"

"Well, it's not like I've really got anything better to do," Sam pointed out, shrugging. "And the sooner I get this in hand, the better. Dean thinks these, uh, psychic hiccups get worse when I'm stressed, and there's kinda been a lot to stress me out lately." He remembered something else Dean had told him. "He was worried about the Prince feeling me, though. When it happens. Will that be a problem?"

"I should be able to shield you." Castiel paused. "The timing may not be perfectly opportune, but...Sam. You're making the best decision possible. When your gospel is written, much will be made of this moment."

"...right." Sam would ask him to elaborate on that later, since he really didn't like the sound of his "gospel." "So, let's get started." He brought his hands together and cleared his throat. "Maybe I can pick up a few tricks. Might come in handy, with a Prince of Hell hanging over our heads."

"That's not a realistic expectation," Castiel warned as he moved into the center of the cell. "Many Messiahs never fully master their entirety of their powers, which are vast. For those that do, it can take decades, under normal circumstances." He looked at Sam. "And it goes without saying your circumstances are far from normal."

That came as both a disappointment and a guilty relief. "That's fine. All I want right now's for stuff to stop going flying whenever I'm upset."

"Come sit here, at my feet," Castiel instructed, indicating. "Not a position reflective of your status; I apologize. It's only temporary, though."

Sam took a seat on the floor right in front of him, legs loosely folded, sure he was getting cement dust all over his ass. No avoiding that, though. Castiel touched two fingers to each of his temples. They were warm. Sam heard his wings unfold, pictured them encircling him based on the movement of the air.

What color were they? None, probably, seeing as he didn't think they really existed physically. But he saw them as black in his head.

"I'll be guiding you as unobtrusively as possible," Castiel informed Sam.

Sam'd closed his eyes, but now he opened them again, frowning. "Uh, 'guiding' me?"

"It won't be intrusive," Castiel promised. "I'll hardly be delving into your mind. Simply providing direction on an intimate level." Sam felt him roll his shoulders. "Now, relax, please, and try to clear away your thoughts."

It sounded like he wanted him to meditate. Good thing Dean wasn't here to make fun of him.

No, he was just with his father, who'd reemerged after years of radio silence specifically to kill him. Sam grimaced to himself, wondered how he was doing.

Palms on his knees and eyes closed again, Sam breathed slowly in and out until he found a rhythm that worked for him. He focused on that, let his other thoughts trickle away, his mind clear. Then...it felt like a feather flickering over the clefts of his brain, gone as quick as it'd showed up.

"Ah," Castiel said.

"What?" Sam asked, feeling like he had to sneeze but inside his body.

"Nothing. I'd just forgotten how...messy an active human brain is." Sam twisted to frown up at him, offended. "Sorry. I realize you're doing your best." They settled back into their positions. "Let me try again."

For a while, there was nothing. Sam was just thinking that Castiel's guidance really was unobtrusive when it started for real. It was the mental equivalent of being grabbed and steered by the back of his neck, painful, humiliating, something his father'd used to do all the time when he was still smaller than him. He had no idea what Castiel was trying to do and couldn't tolerate finding out. With a sharp gasp, Sam learned forward, breaking the physical connection. Inside, he bucked wildly at whatever was left.

He heard Castiel's trench coat flap violently behind him and knew he was the one who'd done it.

"Sam." Castiel's voice was stern as Sam eased off his knees, which he'd wound up on, and sat back down again. "We can't make any progress unless you allow me in."

"Sorry." There was a handprint fading on Sam's brain, white-blue burned into the fragile meat. He could see it when he blinked. "Sorry. Just...wasn't expecting it, I guess."

Castiel touched his temples. Sam went through the long process of calming himself down again. Castiel slipped into his skull, Grace-hand or feather or feeler or whatever, and Sam jerked, severing the contact again. It was a reflex, like kicking when something hit his bent knee just right.

He turned so he could look up at Castiel, standing over him, arms held slightly out from his sides. His head was cocked and his eyes were bright as he studied Sam. He had no expression.

"Maybe," Castiel said, "we should wait until the situation is less...volatile."

"No." A cramp wound through Sam's calf like a hot, knotted cable. He rubbed it. "I wanna at least get a foothold. I wanna stop worrying I'm gonna make somebody's head explode, or - or pass out and see how I die." It felt like he was glaring at Castiel, and he hoped he wasn't. "I can't _be_ like this anymore."

Castiel looked at him a second longer, then away, eyes unfocusing. The blue glazed over like dirty ice on the ocean, the light dulled. Sam wondered if he was talking to the other angels, his garrison, Annanel. To Zachariah.

He came back quick. A grimace shimmered over his mouth, so fast Sam half-thought he'd imagined it. Castiel looked at him.

"All right," he agreed. "We'll continue, until you're ready to stop." He repeated that, more firmly, and Sam didn't think it was for his benefit: "Until you're ready to stop."

So they kept trying. To have Castiel show Sam what to do, to have Sam allow his presence. It ate up useless hours. The lights flickered a lot, the dust floated off the floor. The lightning storm was raging into late afternoon by the time the last failure rolled around, and Sam'd shucked his jacket and flannel for the second time, slicked thinly with sweat and breathing hard. There was a howling emptiness in his stomach and the threat of a headache in his sinuses, one that spidered down into his neck and back.

Sam wasn't sure how long he'd been waiting for fingers on his temples when he realized it wasn't happening. He looked at Castiel, who was staring off into the station through the walls.

"Whatsamatter?" Sam asked him roughly.

Castiel glanced at him. "Dantalion's unbound."

"Seriously?" Adrenaline rushed out through Sam, a cocktail of relief and lightheadedness. Not dead, _unbound_. He'd talked to Bobby for the whole afternoon and now the cuffs were off him. Sam got up, brushing dust off his jeans.

"Yes. I imagine he'll be coming for you soon." Castiel eyed the momentary shake in Sam's knees. "Probably for the best, relatively speaking."

Sam almost smiled as he dropped onto the bench. "I'm not all that great at this whole Messiah thing, am I?" It didn't come as a huge surprise to him, at least.

"It's who you are, not a 'thing,'" Castiel replied. "When the time is right, what you need will come as easily to you as the beating of your heart. It's God's plan."

Sam shook his head some but otherwise didn't respond to that. He watched the door, expecting it to open at any moment. It didn't. Dean didn't teleport in, either.

"He still in the station?" Sam asked Castiel tentatively.

"Yes," Castiel answered, then admitted, "I'm not sure what he's doing."

Sam rose again, walked to the far side of the cell, nearest the door. That was when he heard it: noises, muffled. With the soundproofing, he couldn't even pick out if they were voices or something else. They piqued his anxiety anyway.

"I gotta get outta here." Sam shrugged hastily back into his clothes, wanting the security of the extra layers. "Could you -?" He didn't even finish the question. As soon as his jacket was on, Castiel grabbed his arm and, with a flap, they were outside the cell.

It was different from being teleported by Dean. Sam had the distinct sense of a slipped fraction of a second, of windburn without any air, and there was a weird feeling in his stomach. Months ago, Dean had mentioned to him how bad angel travel could mess up your guts. Too late to worry about that now, though.

Sam opened the door, and all the noise clarified in a shocking instant: shouting, cursing, furniture banging and doors slamming. It was coming from the other end of the building, probably the bullpen. Sam didn't even think before taking off, unarmed and panicked.

 _"Dean?!"_

"Sam, wait," Castiel warned, following closely. Sam ignored him.

Dean met them in the hall, teleporting right into Sam's path and catching him by the arms, eyes blacking out instantly because of Castiel.

"Perfect timing," Dean greeted, then grunted as Sam hugged him fiercely. After a beat, he hugged back. "Was gonna come get you in a bit." When they broke, Dean nodded to Castiel, standing right behind Sam. "Black Canary bust you out?"

"Yeah." Sam looked Dean up and down, iron-burnt wrists slowly healing, then blinked and leaned around him with a troubled frown. The door that led into the bullpen was just past him. "Did - did anybody see you teleport?"

"Ain't a big deal even if they did." Dean shook his head. "They know. Everything."

That was unexpected. "What happened?"

"I told 'em what was going on. That they got a Prince of Hell on their hands, mainly."

"And they believed you?" In Sam's experiences, civilians tended to, at best, laugh off worldview-destroying truths. Especially coming from people they'd arrested.

"After I gave 'em a little, uh, demonstration?" Dean pointed at his eyes. "Yeah. Won 'em over pretty quick." He cleared his throat. "Then some other stuff came out and...well." He turned, pulled the door telekinetically open with a flick of his fingers. "Take a look."

The bullpen was in utter chaos. Sam stared, needing a minute to take it all in. The deputy who'd put the juiced-up demon cuffs on Dean, the one with a scar through his eyebrow, was in handcuffs himself and looking madder than hell, a hard-faced Abernathy wrestling him into a chair. Most of the other deputies, Swaim among them, were in a frenzy, running around pouring thick lines in front of doors and windows from dusty bags of road salt. The receptionist was hysterical at her desk, clutching her phone white-knuckled, and the woman who'd come in with Bobby seemed to be trying to calm her down.

Almost everyone glanced over, startled, when the door opened, then looked immediately away when they saw Dean. They were obviously afraid of him. Maybe he could at least hide the black eyes, but Sam didn't tell him that.

The sheriff (REYNOLDS, his now-visible nametag said) was talking to Bobby. He had an expression on his face Sam recognized: shaken to the core, but holding off on processing it all and breaking down because there was a job to do. He definitely looked strong enough to power through. He noticed Sam when he stepped hesitantly through the doorway.

"Got a feeling I don't wanna know how you got outta your cell," he said grimly. "What're you, then? Vampire, witch? Another demon?"

"No, sir," Sam assured him. "Just human, I promise."

"That's not strictly true," Castiel murmured. Thankfully, he still seemed to be invisible to everyone but Sam and Dean.

Sam joined Bobby and Sheriff Reynolds, keeping a respectful distance from the latter. Castiel followed him. Dean entered the room but stuck close to the wall, stayed out of everybody's way, and even then, his presence sent the tension levels soaring. Sam would've preferred him closer but didn't want to push their luck.

"Is there...anything I can do to help?" Sam asked, lifting his shoulders a little. A chair bucked against the floor and he glanced over, at Abernathy still wrestling with the other deputy. His nametag read MATTOX. Swaim put his bag of salt down and hurried to help her hold him in place.

"Not sure," Bobby replied, pulling Sam's attention back. "Right now, we're still just trying to figure out our plan of action." He nodded around. "Barricading the station, obviously, but seems like the department's - "

"Hey, faggot!" Mattox hollered. When Sam looked at him again, he was glaring back, eyes caustic with hate. Dean pushed off the wall he'd been leaning on, but stopped when Sam shook his head. The murderous look didn't leave his face, though. "You've killed every single one of us, you son of a bitch."

"You don't talk about a man's mother like that, Hank," Swaim chided, squeezing Mattox's shoulder in a way Sam knew would wrench its soft parts.

"Ease off, Deputy," the sheriff ordered, then, "Sergeant Mattox. Don't believe everyone who deserves to's heard what you did. Why don't you explain yourself again?"

"They were gonna leave us alone." Mattox spat. He was vibrating under Abernathy and Swaim's hands, and Sam could taste his loathing like industrial ash on his tongue. "All of 'em. The Prince and all the rest, forever. We would've been safe and all I had to do was hand over the Knight and his whore." Mattox gritted his teeth. Must've bit his cheek or his tongue, because they were bloody. "Served 'em up on a silver platter. Gave me a pair of cuffs to freeze the Knight's balls, tipped me off 'bout where they were."

"This was a Prince of Hell you were talkin' to." Bobby coughed, weary. "And you believed it."

"She had to honor her end," Mattox snapped back. "We sealed the deal."

"Now there's an image I didn't need," Dean commented, icily, sharply sarcastic.

"Not like it was all that much of a trade." Mattox eyed Sam with disgust. "With you bein' a murd - "

"You were gonna condemn somebody's soul to _Hell_ , Hank." Another deputy interrupted angrily, straightening up from where he'd been shaking salt out around a vent. His name was MIDDLEBROOKS. "Don't matter what he's done, don't matter what you were gonna get in return. Only the Lord can make that choice and you gotta face facts: you played at bein' Him. You made a deal with a devil." He shook his head. "And you call yourself a Christian."

 _"He,"_ Mattox grated, jerking his head at Sam, "is living in sin with a demon."

"Considering what you gotta do to make a deal with a Prince, son," Bobby started dryly, "I don't think you got much of a leg to stand on there."

Disgust rippled across Middlebrooks' face, Reynolds'. Abernathy and Swaim looked like they wanted nothing more than to let go of Mattox, but held on. He swallowed like he had a mouthful of poison.

"Bill." He appealed to the sheriff. "I was doing the right thing, here. I know I was. What d'you think this storm's from? Ain't natural. We're all in deep, deep trouble, but there's still time to - "

"Get him in a cell," Reynolds told his deputies. "No point listenin' to any more of his bullshit." As Abernathy and Swaim yanked Mattox up and dragged him off, Reynolds turned to Sam. He addressed both him and Dean, but spoke only to Sam.

"I don't particularly like or trust either of you," he began, hands on his belt. "Most of what I know's that you're lawbreakers, and that _he_ \- " He pointed at Dean, who stared blankly back. " - ain't something I want anything to do with. And I don't at all approve of your...lifestyle."

"Bill." Bobby said it neutrally, but it was a warning.

"I trust him, though," Reynolds continued, gesturing to Bobby. "And he tells me you can help. Sounds like we need as much of that as we can get, and if it keeps us all alive, I'm not above working with you two."

Sam swallowed. He was uncomfortable, but it was a familiar breed of discomfort, one running back years. One he'd learned to live with.

"All right," he said quietly, nodding. "Well, we're...we're ready to do whatever you need us to."

Dean snorted.

"Sheriff?" Abernathy called from the holding cells, strangled, before anybody could react to that. Sam half-glanced over his shoulder, saw Castiel, and realized she'd probably caught sight of his warding.

"I'll handle it." The receptionist had gone from a tearful freak-out to quiet shell shock, the phone in its cradle. The woman in the suit left her and headed to the back of the building.

Bobby cleared his throat. As soon as Sam was looking at him, he suggested, "Why don't you boys go grab your gear? Bet they took all kindsa useful stuff off you when they brought you in."

"We can do that," Sam agreed readily.

"Right." Reynolds hesitated, then said, "You can go with..." He trailed off, glancing around uneasily. It didn't take much to see he didn't want any of his deputies alone with them.

"We got it," Sam told him, which seemed to shave a sliver off the weight on his shoulders.

"Lockup's down that hall." Reynolds nodded to a door that didn't lead back to the holding cells. "Past my office and the vending machines. First door's unlocked, and your stuff's outside the cage, so shouldn't need any keys."

It probably wouldn't endear the sheriff to them any to remind him Dean could teleport and they wouldn't have needed the keys either way. "Thanks." Sam left, picking up Dean along the way, Castiel sticking close as he had this whole time.

Past the door, alone except for the rare salt-pouring deputy (and Castiel), Sam found himself gravitating towards Dean. Their hands brushed, knuckles chiming against each other, and then Dean grabbed Sam's hand and held it so tight it was like he was trying to keep him from falling off a cliff. Their scars and calluses meshed like Velcro, and something that'd been quietly frantic since Dean had been taken finally calmed deep in Sam.

He looked at Dean, the tightness around his black eyes and the bunching muscles of his jaw, and squeezed his hand.

"So...how'd it go?" he asked quietly. "Talking with Bobby."

Dean answered the way he had a lot lately. "Fine."

"Just 'fine?'" Asking was reflexive, like jerking away from Castiel'd been earlier.

"It was long, it was awkward," Dean stated. "It was everything I was afraid it was gonna be." He glanced at Sam, expressionless. "But I convinced him I'm me, and that's all that matters."

"Yeah." Sam nodded, feeling guilty. "You're right. I'm...I'm glad."

They passed what looked like Reynolds' office, and a little waiting-room-cum-breakroom, just an alcove with a couple chairs and a coffeepot. Dean had been silent, but now he spoke up again. "There's something you oughta know."

Didn't that sound awesome. "Yeah?"

"We went over a lotta stuff." Dean cleared his throat, facing straight ahead. "The whole Jesus thing you got going on, for one. And...he knows about Messiahs, Sam. He was real upset when I told him about your herald angel descending from Heaven and annunciating you." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

"But...where'd he find that kinda lore?" Sam was bewildered. "I mean, it doesn't _surprise_ me, he taught me everything I know about research. But I've done a lot of reading, and I never even caught a whiff of Messiahs until the..." He glanced at Castiel. "Annunciation."

"You're not using that correctly," Castiel informed them. Dean didn't even acknowledge him.

"That's not all, though." The tightness in Dean's face got tighter. "He...I got the feeling he knew there was always a possibility you were one of these things." His grip on Sam's hand bore down until it started to hurt. "He hoped like hell you weren't. But he knew you might be."

Sam's shock hit hard enough to be painful as the pressure on his hand. It felt like being pistol-whipped. Castiel punctuated it with a flat declaration: "That's impossible."

"Are you calling me a liar?" Dean turned to look at him, something dangerous swimming quiet in his voice.

"I just can't imagine anyone could trace the bloodlines accurately enough to - "

"What'd he say?" Sam interrupted, partly to get Dean's attention, partly because he wanted so bad to know.

"Like I told you, he didn't really say anything." Dean tossed his other hand up. "If was more just a vibe I got off him. I don't know anything else."

They were by the vending machines now. Sam took a breath to try and steady himself. Going off the machines (which rattled, blinked, and then spontaneously dumped about half their stock of soda and junk food), it didn't work.

"Fuck, Sam, again?" Dean snapped, coming to a stop and dropping his hand. The pressure vanished, but so did the comfort. "Seriously?"

"I-I'm not doing it on purpose!" Sam exclaimed.

"We did try and address that while we were waiting on you," Castiel rumbled. "Our efforts weren't successful."

"I can see that." Dean eyed Sam then, after an unhappy couple seconds, he dropped his shoulders with a sigh. "Sorry." He reached for him, put a hand on the small of his back, and started guiding him down the hall again. Sam let him. "Look, he told me he was gonna explain everything soon as the crisis is over, and I'm sure this is part of 'everything.' And if it ain't, we'll put the screws to him 'til he coughs it up." He glanced at Sam, sidelong, then amended, "Not really."

"Never said anything to me," Sam murmured.

"Might not've known back then." As they turned a corner and the lockup came into sight, Dean asked, "So what's up with the girl?"

"Oh, I don't even...I've got no idea." Sam shook his head. "Maybe some kind of assistant?"

"Maybe." Dean nudged Sam, grinning. It was forced, but only a little. "She's hot, though, right?"

Sam laughed despite himself as he pulled the door open. "I _guess_ , but d'you really think you oughta be talking about that with me?"

"That reminds me. Can't believe you told Bobby we're boning." Sure enough, all their things were piled on a desk near the locked cage, tucked away in evidence bags that were half labeled and half not.

"Well, you didn't wanna." Sam went for his weapons very first. Having the knives back on him, hanging near his heart inside his jacket, felt irrationally safe. His phone was there, too. A deputy must've gone back and picked it up. Fourteen missed calls from Garth. Eight from Charlie, five from Ellen, so he must've sounded the alarm. Sam sent out a mass text. _I'm fine, out of jail. Tell you more later._ "And I think we're doing a little more than just boning, Dean."

Dean got his ring back, blinked his eyes clear. They looked at each other for a second in the small, poorly-lit room, Castiel standing in the doorway, and Sam was pretty sure Dean wanted to kiss as bad as he did. It didn't feel right, though. They let it pass and left the empty bags piled on the desk.

"What're we gonna do?" Sam asked in the hall, almost laughing as he shook his head.

"Dunno, but we're at least better off now than when we were locked up," Dean replied, and that was true. He stopped by the weakly-buzzing vending machines, adamant Sam needed to eat, and grabbed him Bugles, beef jerky, and Gatorade out of the piles he'd knocked down. When Sam commented on how unhealthy a meal that made, Dean snagged a bag of Funyuns. "There you go. Vegetables."

Right before they got back to the bullpen, Dean froze up next to Sam for a second, then clapped a hand on his shoulder, squeezing.

"Hey," he said. "Listen, I need a minute. Gonna head outside, be back soon."

Made perfect sense to Sam. Everyone in there hated him (them) and was afraid of him. And then there was Bobby. "All right, yeah. Take as long as you need. But..." He put a hand briefly over Dean's. "Be careful, okay?"

"Course." Then Dean was gone, leaving Sam holding his own shoulder. He let go and opened the door.

The deputies had finished up with the salt, were now drawing Sharpie runes on windows and walls, going off Post-It examples Bobby must've provided. As Sam returned to him and the sheriff, his assistant or whatever she was came back with Abernathy and Swaim trailing after her.

"Your deputy will be _quite_ safe in his cell, rest assured," she announced, then looked at Sam. "Someone was very busy back there."

Sam smiled awkwardly.

Bobby coughed. "Probably should've done this before now. Never been one for manners, though, so...Sam, this is Bela. She's my right hand these days, pretty much."

Sam looked at her, and the name clicked with the vague familiarity he'd been feeling. "You're - "

"I _used_ to deal in occult items, yes," Bela confirmed. "Both real and fake. I've been with Mr. Singer for several years now, though. He made me an offer I couldn't refuse. The pay leaves something to be desired..." Bobby snorted. "But there are undeniable fringe benefits."

Sam tried not to react to that and, apparently, failed. Bobby snorted again.

"Get your mind outta the gutter," he ordered. "Speaking of." He gestured vaguely behind Sam. "Where's Dean?"

"He...needed some air," Sam explained, even as he thought about what Dean had told him. Bobby knowing about Messiahs. He wanted to ask, it burned in him, but now was not the right time. "Probably be back before too long."

Bobby seemed to accept that. Reynolds looked troubled, but didn't say anything.

"Sir." Apparently done laying warding, Middlebrooks came up, one hand full of multicolored markers and a fan of Post-Its fluttering off the fingers of the other. He looked at the sheriff, then Bobby, and hesitantly corrected, "Sirs." He swallowed. "You said the whole county's crawling with demons. What...I know you said we're safe in here, with all we done, but how 'bout everybody else?"

"You got family?" Bobby asked, and the sheriff answered for him.

"Been married 'bout a year now," he said, eyes on Middlebrooks. "And she's pregnant, ain't she?" The deputy nodded. Reynolds turned to Bobby. "Everybody in this department's got kin I'm sure they'd like to protect. They know how to make a place safe now. You object to everybody who wants to leaving and only volunteers sticking it out?"

Sam watched Bobby consider, then sigh. "Not like we're under siege. And we don't have enough weapons to turn this into a numbers game." He looked up at Reynolds. "Cut 'em loose. Could probably do more good at home even if none of the demons are interested in folks on the sidelines."

The sheriff nodded stiffly, then walked off with Middlebrooks to go spread the news. Once they were alone, Sam turned to talk to Bobby.

"I only know of one sure way to kill a Prince of Hell," he said quietly. "And that's that Colt pistol you told me about." Bela tucked a stray chunk of hair behind her ear. "Which I'm assuming is still missing, and which I actually had the blueprints for at one point, but they're gone now. And they'd be useless until 2061 anyway." He very firmly believed Halley's comet had played a role in the forging of that particular gun.

Bobby grunted. "Other things we could try, but..." He looked at Sam. "The issue with that's getting close enough to the yellow-eyed bastard to give 'em a whirl."

Sam was still carrying the crap Dean had given him, in the crook of his arm. He set it down on the nearest desk as he chewed on his lip and thought.

"We know it's only here for one reason," he pointed out. "Or, two: Dean and I. So why don't we just...leave?"

Bobby chuckled at that, shaking his head. "Boy, you know as well as I do that this ain't the kinda monster you can outrun. Not if it wants to catch you."

"Then we give it what it wants." Grabbing the chair closest to him, an office roller with yellowed stuffing poking out, Sam sat down backwards in it and folded his arms on the back.

"I know you aren't suggesting what I think you are," Bobby said flatly.

"I'm not talking about just...out-and-out surrendering." Sam raised a hand. "Especially because it's - "

"This is a bad plan," Castiel interrupted.

" - probably here to kill us. Dean's a traitor, I started the Trials." Sam continued as best he could. "I'm just thinking, maybe, the best course of action here is for the two of us to - "

"No." It wasn't Castiel this time, or Bobby. Sam turned to see Reynolds striding back into the bullpen sans Middlebrooks, face forcefully placid but with a hint of storm under the surface. "You're not gonna hand yourself over to that thing. You're not gonna walk out and meet it, even if you think you can kill it. I won't let you do that."

"That makes two of us," Castiel murmured.

Sam blinked. He would've thought the sheriff would be on board with him and Dean sacrificing themselves, but didn't tell him that.

"It's our fault this is happening," Sam pointed out with a frown. "You shouldn't have to go through all this just because of us."

"And we're tangled up in it, thanks to Hank." Reynolds returned to where he'd been standing before. "Don't matter how I feel about you or the...good demon." He stumbled over the last couple words. "Couldn't live with myself if I turned you out to die just to save our skins." He looked at Bobby. "And I've heard 'bout what you're doing. Trying to destroy Hell or something? I don't get it, but it definitely sounds important enough to warrant keeping you alive."

Sam's tongue sat flat and numb in his mouth. He didn't answer, and wished Reynolds would've said that while Dean was still around.

Bobby broke the silence. "Gonna need to make some calls, do some research." He looked at Sam, apparently anticipating the question in his mouth. "I'll let you know if I need any help. Go ahead and take a breather for now." He glanced up at Reynolds. "Mind if I use your office?"

"By all means."

So Bobby rolled off, Bela and the sheriff following him. Sam relocated to the sagging couch by the station's front door, Castiel standing over him as he ate what he'd gotten from Dean. He wasn't sure he was on good enough terms with anyone here to ask for something different, and he'd definitely had worse.

Afternoon bled into evening and then night, the demon-storm thundering on. Three deputies left, including Middlebrooks, along with the receptionist. Abernathy and Swaim stayed, along with a third guy Sam'd never actually heard talk: BISHOP. Bobby didn't ask for help and Dean didn't come back in.

Sam's right leg jiggled up and down. The left one ached. "Should I be worried about him?"

"He's still right outside the building," Castiel replied. "I wouldn't advise you joining him, though. It's much safer to stay inside."

Everyone slowly congregated in the bullpen again, one by one. It seemed like they weren't sure where else to go. They gave Sam a very wide berth. Bela and Bobby were the last, and they all looked immediately at the two of them. Bobby seemed surprised Dean wasn't back when he looked at Sam, but didn't ask about him.

"So," Bobby started, sitting up straight in his chair. "We got a few - "

Sam didn't see any change in Castiel, still only inches away from him, but given the way everybody else reacted (gasps, jerks, hands flying to weapons), he'd just made himself generally visible. The storm suddenly lost all strength at the same time.

"The Prince is gone," Castiel announced.

"What in the hell're you?" Reynolds demanded, clutching the butt of his gun. The breakdown Sam'd been able to tell he was putting off looked dangerously close. "How'd you get in here?"

Castiel looked at him, at the scared deputies, and Bobby and Bela. His eyes lit up the color of a flame's center, and a powerful glow took root under his skin. It cast the huge shadows of a pair of unfolding wings on the wall behind him, and a faint, unearthly ringing filled the room, muffling the last of the rapidly-fading thunderstorm.

"Don't be afraid," Castiel told them all. "I'm Castiel. An angel of the Lord."

Every officer had a look somewhere between shock and awe on their faces, bathing in the light of Castiel's Grace. Feeling awkward, Sam got up off the couch, and moved over to where Bobby and Bela seemed much less impressed. Reynolds' hand slipped off his gun like he'd suddenly lost all feeling in his fingers.

"An angel," Reynolds repeated, soft and reverent. Abernathy's eyes shone like she was about to cry. Beside her, Bishop dropped heavy as a duffel full of guns to his knees on the concrete floor. It had to hurt, but he just bowed his head and clasped his hands, praying. Swaim looked at him, then went to kneel himself.

"That isn't necessary," Castiel told them, shaking his head. The light and the ringing vanished. "But Sam - " He looked at him and then abruptly cut himself off, apparently registering his feelings.

"Y'know, now that I think of it, Dean did mention you to me," Bobby commented. He seemed oblivious to the unbelieving looks the officers were shooting him. "Wish I'd remembered you earlier; definitely could've used you." He rolled himself forward some. "Now, what was that you said about the Prince being gone?"

"I can't feel it anymore," Castiel answered. "It seems to have left the area."

"Couldn't it just've hidden itself better?" Bobby asked skeptically. Just loud enough to be heard and ignored, Swaim muttered, "I think if an _angel_ says it's gone, we better believe it's gone." Abernathy shushed him.

"I suppose that's a possibility." Castiel paused. "Its Court, too, seem to be in rapid retreat."

"D'you think...did Dean have anything to do with this?" Sam couldn't help asking.

"Doubtful. He hasn't moved."

The detection spells came out then because, despite the remains of the sheriff's department's unshakable faith in Castiel, they needed to make sure. Sam walked the nervous deputies through the rituals he knew ("No, it...it doesn't count as witchcraft, trust me"), Bobby performed a couple he wasn't familiar with. They didn't pinpoint the location of demons, especially cloaked ones, just showed whether or not there was anything infernal within a certain radius. They all came up empty - indicating, obviously, only one demon in the vicinity.

The deputies were extremely interested in Castiel. So was Reynolds, although he was doing a better job of focusing. None of them seemed able to work up the courage to actually talk to him, though, or to even ask what he was doing here, and Castiel appeared content not to start any conversations himself. Probably for the best.

The dregs of the lightning storm dissolved outside, weak moonlight began streaming in. Dean showed up as they were repeating everything to make sure. The sheriff jumped, startled by his teleportation, then swore.

"Whoa," Dean commented, looking at the desks they'd cleared off to make room for basic spell ingredients. Maps, pitchers of water. "What's all this?"

"Well, apparently," Bobby began, frustrated, "everything with yellow or black eyes within ten miles, present company excluded, just decided to peel out." He looked at Reynolds. "I don't like this."

"Can't say I do, either," Reynolds replied.

"Are you kidding me?" Dean asked incredulously. Everyone's attention swung to him. "They're _gone_. And it looks like you made damn sure they really are." He gestured to the desks. "This is the best news we've gotten all day and it feels like a funeral in here." He shook his head. "What's wrong with you?"

Sam swallowed. There were a few moments where they all just looked at each other, helpless, tense, confused. It was an exhaustingly-familiar sensation for Sam. Finally, Bobby heaved a sigh that sounded like it came all the way up out of his knees and pushed himself away from the desk he was sitting at.

"Hell," he proclaimed, shaking his head. "Maybe he's right. Maybe we're just thinking too damn hard about this."

"You guys're the ones who told us what a big deal this was in the first place," Reynolds said flatly.

"I know," Bobby replied. "And it _was_. But...listen, Bill, it's been one long-ass day for all of us." He looked at Castiel, then Dean. "I got two early-detection systems here, and I'll let you know the second they pick anything up. You call me if you or anybody else sees or hears anything, and I mean anything." He stared up at the sheriff. "Meantime, you call your people, you let 'em know the red alert's off. And then you go home and get some rest."

There was a long pause. Arms folded over his chest, Reynolds studied Bobby. Finally, he shook his head.

"Hell'm I s'posed to do with Hank?" he demanded.

"Well, me," Bobby told him, South Dakota dialect twangy and dry next to the sheriff's rich Georgia accent, "I'd turn him loose and give him an hour to pack and get outta town. Cutting a deal with a Prince of Hell." He shrugged. "He's your deputy, though. Your friend. So it's up to you."

Scratching at his crown, where his hair was just beginning to thin, Reynolds sighed through his nose.

"You ain't FBI, are you." It wasn't a question.

"Never was," Bobby replied. "And I think you knew that." He looked around. "Now, Bill, if you'll excuse us, I think I'd like to get these boys outta your hair."

He began to wheel himself towards the door. Bela moved to open it for him and, after a second, Sam went to follow. Dean and Castiel came with him.

"I'd appreciate that," Reynolds responded, "but wait a sec. You. Winchester." Hesitantly, with Bobby already outside, Sam turned to look at him. The sheriff cleared his throat, plainly uncomfortable. "Wanted to...wish you luck, with what you wanna do. Sounds like you're doing good, even, y'know. Living the way you are."

Sam heard Dean's eyes turn black behind him. Reynolds flinched, but only in the face.

"Thanks," Sam said, smiling tightly, and they left, ignoring the way Bishop especially was still looking longingly at Castiel.

As soon as they were out of the building, Dean started to laugh. It was a loud, ugly sound, boiling out of him like toxic smoke. When Sam looked at him, his eyes were still black and he was shaking his head.

"Man," he proclaimed, "I _really_ hope his son's gay or something."

"Dean," Sam said quietly.

"Yeah, I know. Shouldn't wish that on his son."

There was a van in the parking lot, heavily modified. It looked like it'd been tricked out to handle the rough mountain roads, and it was wheelchair-accessible. Bela had just finished helping Bobby in when they reached it. She climbed into the driver's seat. Dean took a second, then claimed shotgun, eyes switching back to normal. Sam got in the back with Bobby and Castiel joined him.

"Any way we could swing by and grab my car?" Dean asked.

"We can grab your stuff out of it, but I doubt it'd be able to make it up to my place," Bobby answered. "Gonna have to park it in town."

"With that sheriff?" Dean laughed. "Yeah, no way in hell. Pun very much intended."

"He's ignorant," Bela said crisply, looking at Dean, "but he takes his job very seriously. And I imagine all he wants is to forget about you. No harm will come to your car." She put the keys in the ignition, but didn't twist. "Now, seatbelts on, everyone, halos and horns notwithstanding." She looked around, eyebrows raised. "I'm not moving until I hear those clicks. My parents died in a car crash."

Sullen and seatbelted, Dean gave one-word directions out to the Impala. When they reached it, the barbecue stand shuttered and most of the snow melted off by the rain, Bobby scoffed.

"That ain't going up the mountain," he stated. "And it ain't your car, either. If it's anybody's, it's Sam's."

"No, it's...it's his," Sam asserted before Dean could respond.

"Well, whoever's it is," Bobby said in the tone of somebody who didn't really care, "get your bags and your arsenal, and then stow it. Probably gonna wanna see if you can't rustle up some sleeping bags, too; ain't got much in the way of a guest room." He nodded to the road. "We'll follow you. Then we'll head on up, bunk down, and swap explanations in the morning."

"Fine." Dean teleported right out, leaving the seatbelt buckled. Sam joined him at the car in the muddy parking lot, and Castiel transferred himself right into the back seat. With the Prince gone, apparently, he didn't feel the need to breathe down the back of Sam's neck anymore.

Dean popped the trunk, grabbed his duffel. Once Sam had his backpack, he propped the false bottom up and considered their supplies, beginning to pick and choose after a second. Realizing he was taking things that would be most useful against other demons, Sam started helping. Then he cleared his throat.

"So," he began. "The...Prince got the hell out of Dodge while you were gone." He looked at Dean.

Dean paused, and looked back, a box of salt rounds in his hand. "Dude. You can't honestly think I had something to do with that."

"Did you?" Sam returned.

"Of course not!" Dean exclaimed. "I couldn't run off a Prince, those things are on par with an angel. And I'm not talking about Flappy here. A real angel." Castiel eyed him through the rear window, and Dean flipped him off, which seemed to puzzle rather than offend him.

"You're actually tougher, though," Sam pointed out. "Than Princes, I mean. You die harder. That's why Knights were such a big issue, there was no putting them down. They just kept coming. Like a tank."

"Yeah, well, I'm more like a Jeep with a flat and a faulty carburetor." Dean closed the trunk. "Can't even use half my powers, don't even know what they are." He glanced at Sam. "It was a coincidence, Sammy. Let it go."

Maybe Sam shouldn't. He wouldn't have in April. But it was December now. And he was fully aware of everything Dean had put up with from him, tired in flesh and soul, sore from wearing handcuffs and his ill-fated attempt at lockpicking, and vaguely nauseated because of what he'd had for dinner. He just wanted to get somewhere safe and fall asleep with Dean.

Sam didn't say anything else. He just got in the car when Dean did, sitting close to him on the bench seat. When Dean chose to drive with one hand and hold Sam with the other arm, he was humiliated to find himself having to blink back tears, but rested his head on Dean's shoulder rather than pulling away.


	23. Chapter 23

_Everyone has some inciting incident that brings them into the life. You see something, or you lose someone, or you just delve too deep. Of course, inciting incidents happen all the time, and the people left behind choose to do their best to forget what they know and just go on with their lives. There's absolutely nothing wrong with that. It's everybody's personal choice, and it's the best one in a lot of circumstances. Think of it like this: most people don't become police officers or enlist in the army, and that's fine._

 _But if you're reading this book, you decided you don't want to forget. You're thinking you might want to do more. You want to save lives, or stamp out evil, or both, just like all the rest of us have committed our lives to doing._

 _It's going to be hard. Really, really hard, and painful, and disheartening, and every other bad thing you can think of. Anybody who tells you otherwise is lying. There's no shame at all in backing out if you realize you can't do it anymore. For now, though, you've decided you can't sit by knowing the truth. You're going to do some good._

 _Congratulations, and welcome to the hunting community._

 _If there's one question I get more than any other, it's_ What do I tell my family? _Or_ friends _, or_ boss, _if you don't have any family or aren't close enough to them for it to be an issue. Even if you don't quit your job or start living on the road and choose to just weekend-warrior it (which is, again, totally fine), hunting brings a lot of lifestyle changes with it that are going to have people wondering. As for that common question, my answer is almost always going to be_ It's up to you.

 _Only you know your family, or your friends, or your boss. How they'd react to a full or edited version of the truth, which lies would put them at ease. Sometimes they were involved in your inciting incident and the choice is made for you, but not always._

 _There are hunters out there who tell their people everything, or are honest with them on a need-to-know basis, and then they get a civilian support system or even some hunting partners. There are a lot that lie, to avoid the obvious psychological burden of knowing the truth and the very real danger that can come with it._

 _And then there are some that just walk away. Disappear or fake their own deaths, and start a totally new life. I know I said only you know your family, but I can't recommend doing this. It's just not fair._

 _-_ Welcome to Hunting _, Sam Winchester_

* * *

With finding a safe place to park the car, picking up necessities at the nearest Walmart, and making the long, slow drive up into the mountains, it was far past midnight when they finally reached Bobby's house. Which was everything Sam had been expecting Rufus's to be.

Obviously it was hours from town, and hours, even, from the rockiest, most overgrown county road. Only the barest suggestion of a gap between the trees led to the property. The van's shocks got their worth tested, and branches both evergreen and deciduous bare raked loud along the sides. There was warding, too, most probably invisible to Sam, but he saw symbols etched into or painted onto bark, and a new-age-street-stall's worth of charms and talismans dangling overhead.

Sam got a little bit of a _Blair Witch_ vibe. He kept that to himself.

Getting Dean and Castiel in was a pain. They had to drop them all the way back where the protective measures started, copy down their true names in the original alphabets (Enochian, Phoenician, and English, respectively, since Dean needed both "Dantalion" and "Dean Singer"), and then travel the remaining miles to the house to incorporate them into the system as friendlies.

"Just have Bobby put my name in there," Dean told Sam. "Feathers can hang back. Gotta keep the riffraff out."

"Uh." Sam glanced at Castiel, unable to tell if he was spacing out or already summoning his garrison. "No."

Bobby did indeed have a cabin, one around the same size Sam's had been, maybe a little bigger. Several smaller outbuildings were set back from it like satellites, and a chain link fence surrounded the whole thing. The few concessions Sam saw to handicap accessibility, like ramps and walkways made of boards tamped into the uneven loam, were pretty rough, making him think the wheelchair was a recent development. Dogs began to bark inside the main cabin as soon as the van pulled up. Despite his most recent dog experience being the hellhounds in Texas, it was a comforting, homey sound to Sam.

Apparently there was a single book, a grimoire, in the cabin's basement that sort of acted as the anchoring point for all the overlapping spell matrices Bobby had set up. Dean and Castiel's names had to be written in that. Normally, Sam would've beaten him and Bela inside to get a look at it, and grilled Bobby relentlessly about the theory and practice behind it. Right now, though, he was so tired he almost felt like his heart had stopped beating. So he stayed outside on the porch, backpack hanging heavy off his shoulders like a numb and useless set of wings, breathing in the cold, clear air as he waited for his demon and his angel.

He wasn't kept standing around long. They both appeared only a few minutes later, after the dogs had stopped barking, Castiel landing directly on the porch next to Sam, Dean walking up out of the woods. He teleported past the fence's gate, hands in his pockets.

"Jeez," he commented as he approached Sam. "Could he have made this place any harder to find?"

"The warding may be a bit extreme in some areas," Castiel agreed, looking troubled. "For example, I can't hear my brethren." He glanced at Sam. "This is likely the safest place we could be at the moment, though."

The door behind them opened, and Sam turned to see Bobby.

"Well, come on in," he said, like he couldn't believe they hadn't already. He rolled back invitingly, and Sam entered, Dean and Castiel following. Dean closed the door behind them.

They were in a comfortably-worn living room, decor and atmosphere echoing what Sam remembered from Bobby's old house. Bela was sitting on a couch that dipped in the middle, hair down and shoes and suit jacket off; she winked at Sam, much to his confusion. He could feel Bobby looking at him, too, studying his face and the way he was holding himself.

"Nice place," Dean said, and Bobby grunted in acknowledgement.

"Well, I know I - " Bobby was interrupted by two dogs racing suddenly and excitedly into the room, claws digging new grooves in a wood floor that was already pretty scratched up. A cattle dog and an undocked Doberman, their tails wagging frantically and their tongues lolling out of their mouths...until they saw Castiel and especially Dean.

They both came to a dead stop, tearing out deep gouges with a loud clattering, and their hackles bristled up. Their lips drew back from their teeth and they growled, threatening and deep in their chests, tails held straight out behind them.

Dean tensed, eyes quietly changing. Sam grabbed his arm, just above the wrist, and held tightly. He also took a step forward and to the side, angling himself partly between Dean and the dogs.

"Ashcroft!" Bobby snapped, spinning himself to glare at them. "Powell!" The dogs barely relaxed, and didn't back off at all. "Christ, you two..."

"Well, that's what they're _supposed_ to do. There's a demon in the house. And I imagine they don't even know what to make of the angel." Bela got up, took hold of both dogs by their heavy chain collars, and tugged them back down the darkened hallway they'd rushed out of. They scrabbled the whole way, straining and snarling. "Come along, boys, let's put you in your kennel. You can chew on some nice toys."

Once they were gone, Dean's eyes changed back. Sam rubbed his arm as he ran the other hand backwards over his hair, blowing out a breath.

"Guess two ain't so bad," he told Bobby. "You used to have...what? Like, a dozen?"

Bobby eyed him for a long second, then shook his head with a snort. "God only knows how I brought up a kid who doesn't like dogs." He returned his attention to Sam. "Anyway. As I was saying, I know I promised you an explanation as soon as we got up here, but it's gonna be a long talk and you look like you're barely staying upright, son. Why don't we call it a night?"

Sam opened his mouth to reply to that, torn between fatigue and a crushing need for answers, but Dean grabbed _his_ arm and squeezed before he could say anything.

"Probably smart, yeah," he agreed. "You at least got a place we can bunk down?"

"You two can go ahead and take the workshop," Bobby replied, gesturing. "It's over there, building with a smokestack coming outta the roof. There's a stove you can make a fire in, and it's got insulation and running water. Outside of that, can't make any promises 'bout how comfortable it'll be." He looked uncertainly at Castiel. "And you..."

"Thank you, but I don't need any accommodation," Castiel assured. "I'll stand guard outside this workshop, so as to ensure Sam is safe."

Sam knew without even looking that Dean was rolling his eyes. For his part, Bobby just said, "Great." He began to roll out of the room. "See you three in the morning, then. Lemme know if you need anything."

"Yep." They left the cabin and made a stop at the van to grab Dean's duffel and their weapons. Along with the bedding, bought on a credit card they had no intention of ever paying off.

The workshop was easy to find. Metal chimney, rusting oil drum half-buried right by the entrance, and a padlock on the door, which dropped open at the barest motion of Dean's fingers. Inside, Sam set down what he was carrying and looked around, picking out what he could in the darkness. There was a workbench, an industrial sink, and the stove Bobby'd mentioned, all sat on a sealed concrete floor littered sparsely with shavings and herb fragments. Books and ingredients lined shelves, all strictly organized according to Bobby's unique personal system. Looked like the space was intended for experiments, or maybe also making weapons and magical items.

"Whoa," Dean remarked, dropping his duffel on top of a chalked-out, half-erased spell circle. "This is way snazzier than your old setup."

"Uh huh," Sam agreed tiredly.

He cleared a space on the floor, and Dean stacked firewood expertly inside the stove from a pre-chopped pile. After crumpling up some old receipts and candy wrappers for kindling, he lit a fire with a snap of his fingers and shut the door.

"You didn't have to do that," Sam pointed out. "We got all...this." He indicated the thermal blankets Dean had insisted on.

"Yeah, I did; you're cold." Dean tapped his own nose. "Nose gets all pink when you are. I can tell." He sat down and grabbed the air mattress he'd also insisted on, to protect Sam's "bony parts" from hard floors, and opened the box. "Now, let's figure this out. S'pose it's really 'self-inflating, guaranteed?'"

As Dean wrestled with inflating the mattress and zipping together their sleeping bags, it occurred to Sam he hadn't had a telekinetic hiccup since he wacked out the vending machines back at the sheriff's office. That was encouraging. Maybe he was just too tired for it.

Of course, soon as he even had the thought, something spasmed in his soul and a silver chalice tipped gently over on the workbench. Sam got up and righted it. Neither he nor Dean said anything.

With their makeshift bed made up, the two of them undressed, jeans, boots, and flannels off. Sam imagined he could literally feel dirt gritting along his skin, after spending all day in the car and then jail. But he didn't have the energy to shower even if he'd known where to do it.

There was one thing, though, that he wasn't too tired for. Or, more accurately, that his need for outweighed his exhaustion. Sam pulled his T-shirt off over his head to swap it out for a clean one, and felt Dean's lips press hot against his bare spine between his shoulder blades. He was pretty sure he had a mole there. Not even reaching for the other shirt, Sam closed his eyes and leaned back, into Dean's mouth as he wandered up to his neck. The small space of the workshop had warmed quickly with a fire in the stove, and a sunset-colored glow seeped past the door. Sam let Dean's kisses and wandering mouth slowly stoke a separate heat in the bottom of his stomach, overflowing to pool in his balls and thickening cock.

It stayed gentle as Sam tugged his boxers down in order to take hold of himself, but then, as he let his head fall to one side, the grip Dean had on his hips tightened, and he sucked aggressively at his collarbone.

"Dude," Sam mumbled, turning to look at Dean when his mouth popped off. "Did you just...give me a hickey?" It didn't hurt, and was in a spot most of his shirts would cover. It just seemed a little eighth-grade to Sam.

"Gotta mark what's mine," Dean replied, and then bit Sam's neck.

"D-Dean!" Shocked, Sam jerked away from his teeth. Dean let go of him, only to soothingly pet his shoulder, a good distance from the swollen flesh.

"You don't like it?"

"I..." Considering the precome that'd just dribbled out of Sam's rock-hard dick, he didn't think that was the problem. "Guess it's okay. After all, it's gonna be your dad who sees any of your 'marks.'"

"Your fault he even knows we're fucking." Dean didn't bite anymore, though.

He manhandled Sam in getting him on the air mattress, climbing on top, and starting to prep him. Sam couldn't deny it was exciting, since he'd been expecting the same languid lovemaking they'd had the morning after Castiel appeared. His body reacted appropriately. Of course, his hole wasn't and probably never would be self-lubricating.

"Wish there was a way to just snap my fingers and make you wet," Dean murmured huskily, half his hand stretching out Sam's tight, twitching ring. "Or me. Then we could get right down to business."

"Maybe that's one of those powers you haven't figured out how to use yet." Sam tipped his head back, sleeping bags slippery under his bare skin.

Dean was obviously horny, too, eager for sex, but there was also an unmistakable tension in him. Probably left over from earlier in the night. Sam understood, but when they joined, Dean slammed into him a lot harder than he would've liked. Hands like claws on Sam's thighs, he forced his legs so far up the backs of his knees stung. His thrusts were so savage and frenzied they made Sam gasp; it was like being railed by a jackhammer. When he looked up, Dean's eyes were black and his teeth were bared, both lit up a hellish red from the fire, and Sam wasn't sure he was even seeing him.

Sam was half-tempted to just put up with it, especially if it'd let Dean get this out of his system. All he really _needed_ out of this was the connection and the togetherness; he could wring out a quick orgasm with his own hand, if need be. Some of the discomfort could be blamed on the innate awkwardness of air mattress sex. When he started to worry a little about something tearing in him, though, that was way too much.

"Dean. Dean, stop." Panting and wincing, Sam grabbed hold of him. "You're - you're hurting me. And not in a good way, this time."

"...fuck." Dean let go of Sam's legs, which Sam immediately straightened. He could feel fingernail crescents dug white or maybe even red into the skin. "I'm sorry." He blinked his eyes back to normal like he'd only just realized they were black. "I didn't mean to."

"'S okay. Doubt you're gonna break me." Dean went to pull out, but Sam stopped him. "No, wait. Hey." He studied him. It was too dark to see any freckles. "We're...we're okay. We're safe here. The Prince of Hell is gone."

"I know." Dean sounded annoyed, but leaned down to kiss Sam. It lasted a long time, and he stayed there as he began to move again, much more gently, breaking only to let Sam breathe. Sam was pretty sure he healed him, because all the residual soreness and sensitivity faded. He wrapped his arms around Dean, scratched at his scalp, felt out the dimples above his ass. Muscles bunched and smoothed under Sam's wrist as Dean rocked.

He stroked over Sam's prostate with the length of his cock until Sam climaxed. Then he pulled out and, after a couple hand strokes, finished on Sam's stomach himself, mixing their come. Sam found that equal parts hot and touching. He dragged his fingers through the warm pool, lapped at the tips as Dean went to clean them up. Salt and sweat and sulfur.

Castiel, right outside, had definitely heard them. There was no way around it. Sam was surprised (and very grateful) he hadn't flown in when he told Dean he was being too rough.

Once the come and lube had been wiped away, and they'd both pulled on underwear and shirts, they climbed into the sleeping bags together. Dean was on his side, back to Sam. Not for the first time, Sam wondered what he did while he was asleep, especially because he was pretty sure he stayed by him the whole time.

Sam had a hunch, after what'd happened during the sex, Dean might need to be held. And he could use some more close contact after spending the whole afternoon forcibly separated. He didn't ask him about it, though. Just rolled over himself, hugged Dean one-armed so his chest was pressed to his back, and slotted a knee in between Dean's legs. Dean didn't pull away. After a second, though, he muttered, "What're you doing?"

"You never get to be the little spoon." Sam closed his eyes and rested the point of his cheekbone against Dean's head. "Doesn't make a whole lotta sense. I mean. I _am_ bigger than you.

"Yeah, barely," Dean replied with a scoff, but his hand came up, fingers circling Sam's wrist. They lay like that for a while, fire popping and crackling in the stove, before Dean spoke again. "Think the car'll be okay?"

"Yeah, of course." They'd left it in a U-Haul parking lot, well-lit, under surveillance, used to holding empty cars for days or even weeks. "It'll be fine. We can go down to check on it, if you want." Sam paused. "I'm not sure how long we'll be here."

He breathed in Dean's scent. He could feel his heartbeat, always steady, under his cupped palm. He nuzzled into the hair that never grew as he settled down. It hit Sam's heart like an open-handed blow sometimes, but this morning, he found Dean's constancy comforting.

The air mattress gave just a little, pleasingly, under him, and the sleeping bags were soft and fleecy inside. It was warm. The fire in the stove slowly wore Georgia wood down to ash and cinders.

 _Ash_.

Right on the sloped edge of sleep, Sam let go of Dean and forced himself up, crawling down the mattress to grab at his backpack. Dean propped himself up on an elbow to watch him.

"What the hell're you doing?" he wanted to know, annoyed. Sam glanced over his shoulder, then dug into his bag, pulling out the tape-sealed box at the bottom. When Dean saw him put it in his lap, he laid back down with a sigh. "Oh."

Sam sat, legs folded, on the foot of the mattress, holding the box that contained Vaughn's remains. He remembered that first vision: Vaughn and Bobby alive and together. One of those'd been unmistakably confirmed; Bobby was even in a wheelchair, like Sam saw. But Vaughn... Sam turned the box slowly over and over, the feathery contents making soft noises as they sifted through each other.

He didn't know. He couldn't predict. There wasn't any plan, as far as his exhaustion-soupy brain could dredge up, that guaranteed the future he'd glimpsed and wanted.

Sam wasn't quite sure how much time he spent doing that. Too long, probably. But he eventually climbed back up, box in hand, and set it down on the floor near where his head would be. Then he got into the sleeping bags and re-tangled himself around Dean.

It didn't take him nearly as long as he would've expected to fall asleep.

* * *

When Sam next woke, it happened in the best way: slow, natural, easy.

He was starfished on the air mattress inside the sleeping bags, and could feel his hands and feet hanging off the edges. Not that that was anything new. He'd run into plenty of beds that were too short for him since his final growth spurt. His head was resting on a denim-covered thigh, muscle hard against the side of his face, and fingers were running gentle through his hair.

Dean must've felt him wake up. He murmured, "It seems to be coming back in good."

Pulling an arm under himself, Sam pushed up with a groan. The workshop had two big windows, and a skylight that he hadn't even noticed last night, and sunshine was streaming in strong through them. It meant it was still fairly warm even though the fire seemed to have died out. Still sore in his neck and shoulders, and still kind of tired but feeling good overall, Sam sat up fully. The sleeping bags folded around his waist.

"What time is it?" he mumbled. The sun seemed oddly high.

"Little after noon," Dean replied, climbing off the mattress. Sam started at that, looking up at him.

"And you just let me sleep?"

"Look, you gotta get over this hangup you've got about sleeping in," Dean stated. "You were wiped, we didn't even get in bed for real 'til, like, five in the morning...you obviously needed the rest, okay? And it's not like Bobby's going anywhere." He glanced at Sam. "You want something to eat?"

"Yeah." He was starving.

"Get some pants on, then." Dean took Sam's bag in a telekinetic grip and dropped it next to him.

Sam got dressed, even though it offended his rock-solid sense of order to have detergent-scented clothes resting on dirty skin. At least it'd only been a day and a half since he'd last showered. His hair felt greasy, too, but it looked fine as soon as it was brushed, which was a benefit to having a short cut he supposed he could get behind.

Before they left, he moved the mattress and their bags out of the way as best he could. Just in case. Dean snorted and rolled his eyes, Sam ignored him.

Outside, it was another gorgeous December day, the air thin and mountain-cold. There was no sign of last night's electrical storm, not even the faintest zip of ozone on Sam's tongue. Castiel was perched on the oil drum. He climbed off when they emerged. Sam was expecting more morning-after awkwardness, but all he did was avoid eye contact, which might just be him.

"The morning was uneventful," he announced. "No demons, and you...slept quite soundly, from what I felt." He appraised Sam. "Although of course that didn't solve everything. Allow me."

Without any warning besides Dean tensing up a little in response, Castiel touched two fingers to Sam's forehead. An instantaneous frisson blipped over his skin. It delved a little deeper in some places. Sam found himself blinking, shocked, because all of yesterday's grime had spontaneously vanished from his skin and hair. The residual ache in his muscles was gone, too, and a couple other things he hadn't even been aware of. Dry eyes. Tight back. Cramping leg.

"Don't touch him," Dean warned as Castiel dropped his hand.

"No, it...it's okay," Sam assured, touching hair that was now soft and light. "Thanks." A second later, as he ran his hand through it, he realized it was all the same length. "Oh my god, he - " He turned to Dean, excited. "He grew my hair back!"

Expression sour, Dean didn't respond to that. Just told Castiel, as they all three approached the main cabin, "Got rust all over your ass. Looks like you're bleeding outta your - "

Castiel fixed it with a touch, trench coat unmarred tan once again.

Sam could hear the dogs barking, near hysterical, but they didn't come into view. Maybe they were chained up, or in the kennel Bela'd mentioned last night. Either way, hearing them couldn't help Dean's mood.

Sam knocked on the cabin's back door. "'S open," Bobby called from inside, so he twisted the knob and led the way in.

The door opened on the kitchen, which matched what they'd seen of the place last night. Linoleum countertops and checkered curtains. Sam looked at the table, small, only one chair at it. He'd seen Vaughn sitting there, Bobby across from him, guns broken open and spilling ammo between them.

"So where's Nurse Gisele?" Dean asked as Bobby wheeled himself in from what looked like the den. The room was big enough for the four of them, but just barely.

"Her name's Bela," Bobby replied, fixing Dean with a look. "Or that's what she likes to be called, at any rate, and you'll remember that if you wanna save yourself a whole world of hurt." The suit and the combed hair were gone today, replaced by a hunter's uniform of flannel and denim and a characteristic trucker cap. It just looked right to see him like that, even in the chair, and with his beard gone white. "She's on a supply run. I imagine she'll be going on a lot of those, if you eat even half as much as you did ten years ago."

The last part was directed at Sam. He felt himself blushing, even though it hadn't been irritated or cutting in the slightest. "I was...I grew a lot."

"Yeah, and now you eat like a horse, veggies and all." Dean went over to the fridge and pulled it open. "Or you need to if you don't wanna pass out." He glanced at Bobby. "Speaking of, okay if I make him something?"

"Be my guest," Bobby responded, then addressed Sam. "Still coffee in the pot, too, if you want any."

Sam poured himself a cup. Dean sniffed at a carton of milk, then offered it to Sam with an "up-to-you" shrug, so he opted to stick with sugar cubes. He sat down at the table as Dean pulled out bread, eggs, and a frying pan, and Bobby rolled over to join him. Castiel stayed by the door, hands folded.

Sam and Bobby spent an awkward minute just staring at each other, Sam holding his coffee in his cold hands but not drinking it. Dean busily cracked eggs and popped bread in the toaster. Bobby finally broke the silence with an explosive sigh.

"Might as well get this over with," he stated. "Now, I already got pretty much everything you've been up to from Dean." He tipped his head in his direction. "So there's no need to bother with your catch-up."

"Okay." That was a relief, not having to give the third in-depth summary in as many months.

"Now for mine." Bobby took a breath. "I've known a few guys in my time...well, more than a few, actually. They walked out on their families soon as they started hunting. Thought cutting off all contact and letting everybody think they were dead was the way to 'protect' them." He huffed. "Always figured that was stupid. They're you're family, you oughta live and breathe to help each other out if things're the way they're supposed to be, and if nothing else, you at least owe 'em an explanation." He was quiet a moment. "Thought it was stupid. Then I go and do the same damn thing."

He rested his hands on the table in front of him.

"Spent decades trying to figure out what happened to Dean." Dean glanced over his shoulder at Bobby, face blank. "Looked at angels, demons, Heaven, Hell, Words of God, Prophets...stumbled on a whole lotta things I shouldn't've, which ain't a surprise to anybody. The most relevant right now is Messiahs, clearly." He coughed. "I had a look at some family trees - "

"You mapped out the bloodlines?" Castiel interrupted, a little sharply. "Where did you find that sort of information? We've spent millennia trying to ensure that the details of the Davidic legacies stay out of the wrong - "

"It was tougher'n hell to come up with, I'll give you that," Bobby replied. "Like finding a needle in a haystack, 'cept the needle's in a hundred different pieces, in a hundred different haystacks 'round the world."

"We knew you were looking, but you shouldn't have been able to find enough to make a coherent picture," Castiel stated stubbornly, and Sam looked at him, surprised. How long had Bobby been on Heaven's radar?

"Well," Bobby began, slow and exaggerated, and he sounded just like Dean. "I _did_ find it, so maybe your boys didn't do as good a job as you thought."

Castiel opened his mouth, but Dean cut him off.

"You can fight about how good the other parakeets are with a paper shredder later." He was scrambling eggs. "Keep going, Bobby. Pretty sure we all wanna hear this."

Looking at him, Bobby nodded, then cleared his throat. "Even back then, Hell was waking up. More demons, more possessions, nobody knew what was going on and everybody was going nuts over it." He glanced at Sam. "You remember that."

"Unfortunately." Sam sighed. "It was rough." He paused. "I mean, it still is."

"I'd figured out there were plenty of candidates for the next Messiah by then, all comin' of age," Bobby went on. "Twins in Oklahoma. Girl out in Indiana...and I know you guys think female Messiahs're flukes, don't pay much attention to 'em, but my research hasn't held that up, so I was keeping an eye on her anyway." He was talking to Castiel, who didn't respond. Then he looked at Sam again. "And there was you, too."

Sam swallowed.

"I wanted to be wrong." Bobby laced his fingers together, squeezed. "And even if I wasn't, even if I'd plotted the branches that led down to you right, there was every chance it wouldn't be you. But there was still the _possibility_. I needed to get someplace safer than Sioux Falls, and I already had things sniffing around 'cause of the stuff I'd dug up before. Demons, other monsters. I couldn't risk pointing 'em at you."

"That how you got those wheels?" Dean asked from the stove, grabbing a plate. "One of the, uh, 'other monsters' nab you or something?"

"I wish," Bobby said with a dry little chuckle. "Nah, this..." He slapped the side of the wheelchair. "...is fifty years of jumping outta windows and sleeping in my truck. Probably need every joint below the belly button replaced, not that I'm gonna have any of 'em done."

"Welp." Dean cleared his throat. "Nobody ever made any promises about the life being easy on your bones, old man."

"You got my knees, boy." Bobby gestured to Dean's legs, exaggerating their slight bow with a swoop of his hand. "Better watch out. Gonna wind up rolling around yourself pretty soon, here."

"Yeah." The spatula scraped against the pan. "I don't think that'll happen, considering the whole 'immortal demon' thing."

There was an awkward silence. Sam went to drink his coffee, clamping down on a slight adrenaline tremor that wanted to roost in his hands, but it'd already gone cold.

"I've stayed a little plugged in," Bobby said to Sam, eventually. "Left some back channels open so I could help out, if need be, and keep tabs on...y'know, everybody. Including you." He laced his fingers together again. "I heard some. You running, a demon wearing Dean Singer popping up..." He glanced at Dean as bacon began to sizzle in the pan. "Obviously, didn't know the whole story. Never even dreamed there was anything to do with you being a Messiah, and maybe a big part of that was me hoping you weren't ever gonna be wrapped up in this. But I'm guessing Heaven wouldn't've gotten involved if they weren't sure."

"We've established that Sam is the next Messiah," Castiel confirmed stiffly. "We've been aware for some time now, and were content simply to observe and possibly protect, but Sam's undertaking of the Trials...forced our hand somewhat."

"Oh." Sam tossed a hand up, feeling his eyebrows rise as he smiled tightly. "So, everybody knew but me, then." He dropped his hand. His fingers drummed on the table. "Great."

"It ain't like that, Sam," Bobby stated, shaking his head.

"I think it is!" Old pain, tinged with new, crawled up the back of Sam's throat. "It sure _sounds_ like it, at least. You should've told me, Bobby." There was a mismatched set of salt and pepper shakers on the table, and they began to rattle a little. "I don't care if you thought it was 'just' a possibility, I deserved to know. This is my life!" Sam slapped a hand down on top of the shakers without breaking eye contact with Bobby. "I could've done research. I would've been prepared when this happened." He squeezed the shakers. "You should've told me."

"Maybe I should've," Bobby agreed tiredly. "Probably I should've." He'd noticed the rattling but hadn't commented on it. "But it's too late now."

Dean turned the stove off, came over with a plate he set in front of Sam: an egg sandwich with a side of bacon. He put a hand on Sam's shoulder, warm and heavy, and squeezed.

"I get you're upset," he told Sam quietly when he looked up at him, "and I get why." He looked at Bobby. "But you were trying to do the right thing. You wanted to keep everybody you cared about safe, and that's...that's never a mistake."

Sam hadn't been expecting that from him. Going off his face, neither had Bobby.

"Anyway, you're right, too late now," Dean continued after a second, uncomfortable, and coughed. "Long past. Oughta be focusing on what we're doing now."

"Right," Bobby agreed a beat later, still taken aback but returning to his groove. "Well, the main thing we gotta focus on right now's keeping Sam away from Hell."

"What, because of the Trials?" Sam wasn't sure how he felt about Dean essentially taking Bobby's side, but his hand sure felt good. "What about the Messiah thing?"

"This _is_ the Messiah thing," Bobby returned. Castiel moved closer to the table.

"But...what would Hell want with one? Just to kill it?" Hell traded exclusively in human strife. Sam couldn't imagine someone "saving the world" would appeal to its higher-ups.

"Most likely." Castiel more or less cut Bobby off. Bobby twisted to look at him.

"I _doubt_ it," he proclaimed. "Seems to me they're probably on the prowl for an Antichrist."

Sam knew that should be clicking for him. He should be getting it. But as Dean's hand tightened on him, he just...wasn't. "What're you talking about?"

"It's not important." Castiel jumped in again, and this time, Bobby outright glared at him.

"The hell it ain't," he snapped, then turned to Sam. "You said you had a right to know, that you needed to be ready, and I'm completely on board with that this time around. You wanna know, don't you?"

"Of course." It came out automatic as a breath.

"All right, then." Bobby nodded. To Castiel, he said, "You gonna magic my tongue away if I try and tell him everything I know?"

Castiel was visibly, extremely uncomfortable as he thought it over. He kept staring off into the distance, blinking, and Sam wondered if he wasn't trying to talk to his garrison. He'd said last night, though, he couldn't here. After a long time, he reluctantly allowed, "It's...his decision. I suppose."

"Yeah," Bobby agreed. "It is." Now Sam had his undivided attention. He mused for a second before finding a place to start. "See...a Messiah ain't some...wind-up hero. They don't come with a few specific things they're gonna do and nobody can stop 'em or add anything to the list." He spread his hands on the table as he talked. "It's more like a weapon, all kindsa potential. And whoever gets there first gets to use it." He indicated Castiel. "Of course, you've got what Heaven wants to happen."

"What _will_ happen," Castiel interjected, looking at Sam in a way he couldn't interpret. Dean's grip got firmer.

"There are always other possibilities. Hell's fully aware of that." Bobby moved forward, leaned his weight on the table. "A Messiah with their tank topped off is the second most powerful thing in the whole universe, after God." He was silent for a second. "And there's even some lore out there that seems to be dropping hints about them blowing past Him, if circumstances are right." Castiel looked uncomfortable again. "Can't imagine the demons don't have an idea or two 'bout how to put that kinda muscle to work."

Sam's pulse was throbbing fast and hard in his neck. Everything Bobby'd just said had landed with the clarity the Antichrist comment hadn't had, needlepoint pins outlining a terrible shape in his brain, and a shrinking, childish part of him wished it hadn't come across so easily. His breaths had shortened inch by inch as Bobby spoke.

Dean had noticed. "Hey, c'mon. Not doin' yourself any favors there; breathe, Sammy."

Sam forced his lungs to expand fully. They must've hit a switch somewhere inside him, because a glass sitting out on the counter exploded.

Maybe that was an exaggeration. It more just shattered where it stood. Bobby was the only one who jumped, and Dean sighed, long-suffering.

"We gotta get a tinfoil hat on you or something," he commented, shaking his head as he went over to the counter.

"So I see you've got some psychic stuff going on," Bobby said to Sam after a second.

"Completing the First Trial of God abnormally accelerated Sam's development." There was something almost like a note of apology in Castiel's voice. "We're working on getting things under control."

"Sounds like a good plan to me."

"Yeah," Sam mumbled, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

"So, back to the Jesus brigade. Has Hell ever actually gotten hold of one of these th...people?" Dean asked, sweeping glass off the counter and into the garbage can. "I'm guessing not, seeing as the whole world's still here and all."

Bobby looked at Castiel, like he was expecting him to try and beat him to the answer again, but he didn't. He seemed to have withdrawn, staring out the window. So Bobby went ahead and talked.

"Well," he started thoughtfully, "there're rumors floating around, for sure. Nothing concrete, nothing I can confirm, but I've heard the demons did turn up a Messiah sometime recently. Seventies, eighties. Thing is, though, it was a crossroads deal coming due or something like that, and the Messiah hadn't... _activated_ yet or whatever you call it, so they didn't know what they had. Didn't figure it out 'til it was too late, either, and I can't imagine they were terribly pleased about that."

Dean returned to Sam's side. And nudged his plate, untouched as of yet, closer to him. Sam wasn't feeling very hungry anymore, though.

"They know the next one's due to pop up in the U.S., in this decade," Bobby continued. "Prophecy 'bout that got out not too long ago, not sure where it came from. They're not gonna make the same mistake this time. They got a plan to lock down the new Messiah before Heaven's even outta the gate, which they obviously ain't doing too hot on." A hand waved at Castiel. "But they're covering the whole country, eyes and ears everywhere, no stone unturned. Town by town. Eliminating all threats."

Icy numbness bursting through him, Sam looked up at Dean, who was already going to meet his eyes. The East Coast loomed heavy and hard in his mind. Scouts and dead hunters. A Knight directing an army's hostile takeovers.

"That's right," Bobby confirmed. "They're looking for you. Have been for years."

Dean's hand came unexpectedly down on Sam's scalp. He was confused for a second, then realized what he might be trying to do.

"Are you..." He tipped his head back, and the hand slid off. "Do you wanna keep me from firing off?"

"Hey, seems like stuff like that's what's usually got you breaking glass and shorting wires." Dean shrugged.

"I don't think you're gonna stop that just by grabbing my head."

"'Scuse me for trying to help out." Dean nodded to Sam's mug. "You gonna drink that or not?"

"It's cold," Sam replied.

"I got it."

As Dean moved around to Sam's other side, Sam addressed Bobby again. He'd been sitting back in his chair, watching them with his arms folded over his chest.

"So, have they..." Sam spread his hands. "Do they know?"

"Kinda worrying the Prince wanted you," Bobby conceded, "but I think it's way more likely it's true what you said 'bout the Trials and Dean going Benedict Arnold. Doubt they've figured out what you are."

Dean, reaching for Sam's coffee, knocked the mug over. Sam got his arms off the table immediately, then grabbed his plate before the dark liquid could be trapped under it.

"Dude!"

"Sorry." Dean righted the mug, then awkwardly, telekinetically pulled the coffee back in with both hands. Some dripped off the edges of the table anyway, prompting an exasperated sigh from Bobby. Flakes of pepper and dust floated on the surface once Dean had gotten as much as he could. "I'll...get you some more."

"Thanks." Sam put his plate down as Dean dumped gross coffee into the sink. He looked at Bobby, coughed a little. "So. What do I do now? Besides steer clear of demons."

"I think you oughta cool your heels here for a while, honestly," Bobby said with a shrug. "You're definitely safe. You can help me out with research; I'd enjoy that. Bela's decent, but she ain't you." Sam looked down, smiled briefly. "I'll fill you in on what I already know. You can rein in the powers you got popping up..." He nodded to Castiel. "...and just generally get in some R and R. From what Dean's told me, you've been pushing yourself pretty hard, and you could use a vacation." He smirked at Sam. "It'll be a working one, if that makes you feel better." Dean brought a fresh cup of hot coffee over to Sam. He sipped it with a quiet thank-you; it was as sweet as he would've made it for himself. "And in a bit, finishing up the Trials - "

"Sam won't be completing the Trials," Castiel interrupted firmly. "We've already discussed this."

"Uh, no, you've told us Heaven pretty much wants to roll him in bubble wrap, and he's made it damn clear he's doing the other two Trials whether you birdbrains want him to or not," Dean shot back. He put his hand on Sam's shoulder again, and Sam reached up to hold it, giving Castiel a little shrug. Dean had put it pretty well.

"Why in the hell are you against him finishing?" Bobby demanded of Castiel.

"You of all people should understand how important Sam is, after all your 'research.'" The last word was almost snide. "Far too important to risk on the Trials."

"We can't risk Hell picking him up, either," Bobby pointed out.

"Closed Gates, no Hell. Problem solved there," Dean agreed. His accent was more pronounced now, Sam realized. Maybe being around Bobby brought it out.

"It's just too dangerous - "

"More dangerous than what'll happen if a Prince gets their hands on him and actually figures out what he is?"

"Do you even know what I'm supposed to do?" Sam broke in. They'd already had this conversation, about how the Trials might be his grand destiny. What was eliminating Hell if not saving the world?

"If that information exists," Castiel began, "my superiors haven't decided I need to hear it. I'm here to help you master your powers, keep you on the right path, and ensure you stay safe. Which explicitly includes stopping you from doing the Trials."

"Y'know, there's something that's actually been bothering me for a while about this," Dean started, lifting a finger. "Eternal battle of good versus evil, good's supposed to triumph, yadda yadda yadda. Why _wouldn't_ Heaven be, like, chomping at the bit to get Hell sealed off? You're not just on the fence about it, you're a firm no. But shouldn't closing the Gates be something you're even willing to write off a Messiah for?" Sam looked up at him, cocked an eyebrow. "You're gonna do great, Sammy, I'm just saying."

"What?" Bobby asked when Castiel didn't answer, turning his chair around to face him fully. "You guys worried about having to deal with the spirits Hell naturally siphons off?"

There was very, very long pause, then Castiel started testily off with, "Hell serves an extremely important - "

"Oh, my god." Dean laughed, loud. "That's it. You just don't want a whole lotta lowlife souls cluttering up your pearly-gated community."

"You gotta be kidding me," Bobby said flatly. Though he didn't say anything, Sam felt more or less the same.

"I'm a seraph. I have nothing to do with admissions, and even though there are strict criteria, that doesn't mean..." Castiel stopped himself suddenly, taking a deep breath and raising both hands palm-out. "You know what? I don't have to justify any of this." To Sam, "Not even to you. This conversation is far from over, but right now, I should check in with my commanders."

With a hearty, apple-and-mint-scented flap of wings, he vanished. Bobby looked at Dean.

"Y'know, I thought you were exaggerating when you told me he had a stick so far up his ass you could see it when he talked," he commented. "Guess not."

Sam snorted out a half-stifled laugh, and Bobby turned back around, regarding him.

"So." He cleared his throat. "Obviously, gotta lot to work through here. I know it's a ton to take in, and we're gonna have to get the angel on board with you doing the Trials or get him outta the picture, either way. But how're you feeling right now?"

"Not...not too bad." Surprisingly enough. "I think staying here a while's a good idea." Sam glanced up at Dean, who shrugged, then nodded encouragingly. What a drastic change from Bobby coming down the mountain just to kill him. "Research is great. And I really, _really_ need to get a handle on all my...psychic stuff."

"Excellent." Bobby gave a firm nod, then rolled himself backwards. "Well, come on into my study when you're finished, and we can get started. Got a whole lot to show you."

Sam almost stood up to follow him, but Dean stopped him as Bobby left.

"Oh, no you don't. Breakfast first." He pointed to it and fixed Sam with a strict look. "Remember what I said about passing out? Eat."

Sam did, appetite having returned a little.

It was good. Amazing, actually.


	24. Chapter 24

_Sam's dad dropped him off today. He's taking that succubus prostitution ring hunt down in Vegas, which I imagine might take a while and definitely isn't a good place for a thirteen-year-old. Sure took long enough to convince John of that. Jackass._

 _Got everything set up for Sam. Dug out his library card, got him re-enrolled at the middle school, put fresh sheets on his bed. I'll admit I sure do like having the kid around, and I hope he knows that, because I'm not sure how much of that he gets from John. We get along alright. Sam probably couldn't tell the difference between a Ford engine and a Chevy one if you had a gun to his head (and that isn't from lack of trying on my part, let me tell you), but he's damn good company anyway. He's smart. We've got the same taste in books and movies, and he's just great with the dogs. His birthday's coming up in a couple months here and I'd let him have his pick of O'Leary's puppies if I didn't know for a fact his daddy would hit the roof._

 _It's been about ten years now. I guess it can't hurt to say he reminds me of Dean, too, except for liking dogs and not liking cars. He doesn't look much like him, either. But he's every bit as stubborn as Dean was, he's just as loyal to the people who are important to him, even John, and he's got this deep-set, earth-shaking drive in him to do the right thing. He wants to save lives, help people out, whether by hunting or doing something else, and if that isn't my boy, I don't know what is._  
 _Sam doesn't know about Dean, and I can't imagine he'd ever need to. But if he were still around, I think they might have gotten along real well. Dean never shut up about wanting a little brother when he was in grade school, after all._

 _Then again, they might of fought like werewolves and skinwalkers. Maybe they're a little too much alike._

 _\- Personal journal of Robert "Bobby" Singer, c. 1997_

* * *

It only took a few days for life at Bobby's to fall into an easy routine.

Most of Sam's time was taken up with research. Bobby showed him all the material he'd found so far on Messiahs, and that took him a while to get through. A lot of it was written in flowery Biblical language, which inflated it, and then it was super repetitive, and there was also a lot of genealogical stuff that didn't really matter anymore now that Sam's status had officially manifested. In addition, he'd already heard most of the relevant information from Castiel and Bobby himself.

It was still useful to read it on his own, though. And he came across some interesting details.

"Hey," Sam realized, as he examined a massive and painstakingly-crafted family tree, laid out on butcher paper. It was complicated enough to be more like a family bramble. "The Singers are on here."

"Yep," Bobby agreed from his custom desk. They were in his study. "I noticed that. Pretty sure we're a dud line, though, seeing as how we haven't had so much as a clairvoyant in a couple thousand years."

Something unpleasant suddenly occurring to him, Sam tried to trace the tangled connections. He didn't get very far, though. He wished Bobby would've used different colors rather than drawing it all out in black ink.

"...are Dean and I related?" he asked uncertainly. Bobby half-laughed, half-snorted at that.

"Not in any way that matters," he replied. "Unless you count me raising both of you, or at least helping out." He had a magnifying glass over an illuminated manuscript. "Not like you can have kids, anyway, so the point's moot." He paused, then looked at Sam over his shoulder. "Lease I sure hope that ain't one of your Messiah powers. Or his...demon ones."

"Uh. Yeah. Me, too."

Once he was done with that mountain of books, articles, tapestries, and diaries, impressing Bobby some with his speed, Sam was promoted to helping out with his current research: what Messiahs were generally expected to do, the hierarchies and long-term plans of Heaven and Hell, and a bunch of other stuff in that vein. One of the outbuildings surrounding the cabin was an enormous, fully-outfitted library. Thousands of books, and thousands more in the cabin itself. Sam spent a lot of time grabbing documents out of there and even more time just hanging out in it, reading, transfixed.

(Bobby also had a copy of every single one of Sam's books, including those written after he'd disappeared. Sam got a shock uncovering those, staring at them for a while, wondering how Bobby'd gotten his hands on them.)

"This is pretty much a wet dream for you, huh?" Dean commented not long after they arrived.

Sam spent a lot of time on his laptop, too, and the wifi was surprisingly good. According to Bobby, Bela was the one who'd insisted he needed it and set it up for him. The reception was spotty up here in the mountains, so the router was set in the middle of a custom spell circle, an extremely-complicated one designed to boost its signal.

Even Dean had to admit that was awesome when he saw it.

Sam's cell signal was decent, too. Good thing, since Bobby didn't have a landline. He called everyone, one by one, the afternoon after Bobby's explanation, and had a lot of hours-long conversations over the next few days. He got caught up on their lives. Garth had wound up in the hospital, having ignored a quick-onset appendicitis ("I thought I just had the flu!") until a kachina punched him in the stomach and ruptured it, and Charlie had gone down to stay with him while he recovered. Ellen and Jo were fighting again because Ellen was sympathetic, but sort of thought he'd deserved it, and Jo wanted to at least visit him. Ellen wouldn't let her go, worried she'd take off with Garth or Charlie on their next hunt, which Sam privately thought was a fair assumption.

Jo's frustration was like a brewing apocalypse and Ellen wouldn't listen to Sam's hesitant warnings or take his advice, so. They'd see how that turned out, he guessed.

He caught them up, too, tongue stiff and jaw sore by the time he finished with everyone. Their arrest, the Prince of Hell, Bobby...Sam did get a break when he handed the phone off to him so Ellen could ream him out herself. Sam told them everything. Except, as usual, the stuff that pertained to Castiel and the Messiah situation. He and Dean had a short argument about that.

"Aren't you doing exactly what you got so pissed at Bobby over?" Dean wanted to know when Sam hung up after yet another marathon conversation. "I mean, with you not telling 'em about being Jesus two-point-oh and all."

"So you think they need to know?" Sam rasped. His throat was killing him.

"I didn't say that."

"Could you get me a glass of water?" Sam cleared his throat. "I'm gonna call Ash, see if we can't pirate Garth some movies or something between the two of us."

Beyond research and keeping in contact with his family, Sam felt like there was no shortage of things for him to do. He spent a lot of time outside, appropriately bundled up at Dean's nagging, hiking around Bobby's huge and mostly-wild property. He enjoyed moving again, in the fresh, lung-burning air, and being alone. He'd been feeling tired lately, chest hurting some, and for an unknown reason, he had really bad heartburn. He wondered if he wasn't coming down with something, but he never got fully sick, just felt kind of...off. Exercise seemed to help. Or at least it didn't hurt.

He made sure to stay inside the warding and frequently took the dogs with him. Sam was delighted by how much they seemed to like him. They were even warming up to Dean, though the feeling definitely wasn't mutual.

Sometimes Sam watched TV in the cabin or on his laptop (which was how he'd found out that he and Dean had had an APB out on them, removed after their arrest), sometimes he read just for pleasure. Sometimes he fell asleep next to Dean and woke up to a blanket of fresh snow and the trees glittering with ice, and it reminded him of his own, lost cabin.

He practiced harnessing his powers with Castiel, too. Because he had to. The angel, chronically annoyed by Bobby, Dean, and the Faraday-cage-effect the warding had on his internal radio, wouldn't let him skip a day. Never mind that Sam had no plans to, given how badly he wanted to stop breaking things. Even his fatigue and frequent pain couldn't keep him away from it.

He couldn't tell if he was making any progress. It didn't feel like it; he still jerked away every time Castiel tried to "guide" him. He'd had no visions and fewer outbursts, but that might just be his stress levels dropping. The lack of any real change was probably a big part of Castiel's bad mood.

At least Dean was doing good. There were a couple incidents - the sex he and Sam had on the first night, some smaller trees punched in half with cracks resounding flat in the cold, small fires and broken glasses that might've actually been Sam's fault. But overall, he seemed to be relaxing out here. Healing.

He helped out with research a lot, pointed out connections and patterns Sam didn't think he ever would've seen on his own. He cooked for all three of them, full-course meals, a duty Bela (by her own admission, a mediocre chef) gladly gave up. Sam's appetite was touch-and-go at the moment, but of course Dean's food was always excellent. He hung out with Sam, the two of them almost always casually touching. They had good sex at least once a day. When Sam was busy, Dean gravitated towards Bela. It was weird, almost out of character, to see him showing any interest at all in another human, but he actually did seem to enjoy watching TV and small-talking with her.

She seemed okay to Sam, too. He didn't interact with her a whole lot, outside of passing things to her at the dinner table and asking her to add stuff to the grocery list. She was loyal to Bobby. And she took Sam in stride, and especially Dean, and the two of them together. That was all that really mattered.

He found himself alone with her in the kitchen one day, Dean and Bobby in the study, Castiel outside. Sam was getting a cup of coffee, Bela was grabbing a beer.

"So how goes the research?" she asked him. She was in jeans and her hair was down, much more casual when she wasn't impersonating an FBI agent.

"Oh. Fine." Sam cleared his throat.

"That book you had me grab you help, then?" Bela straightened, bottle in hand.

"Yeah. Yeah, actually..." Sam turned to look at her as he poured coffee from the pot. "Found out I'm distantly related to Abraham Lincoln, so. That's kinda cool."

"That definitely explains the height, at least." Bela looked him up and down, teeth grazing her lower lip. "How tall _are_ you?"

"Six-four," Sam said after a pause, not sure why she wanted to know.

"Mm." Bela smiled, impressed, and then changed the subject. "You know, I only met Bobby after he'd moved out here, but he talked about you all the time. He really missed you."

Sam wasn't quite sure how that made him feel, touched or troubled, but saw an opening to ask about something he'd been wondering for a while now. "So, what exactly are the benefits you mentioned back at the sheriff's office? Of working for Bobby."

"He got me out of a _very_ tight spot." Bela expertly opened the beer with a twist of her hand. "I owe him my life, actually."

Vague as that was, Sam guessed he could accept it for now. He'd ask Bobby later. He headed to the refrigerator to grab the creamer, and Bela got out of his way. Sort of. She stayed really close.

"You and that personal demon of yours." When Sam glanced at her, Bela was twirling a lock of hair around her index finger. "Are you two...exclusive?"

Sam felt his eyebrows shoot up. "Uh," he started. _"Yes?"_

"Shame." Bela didn't seem to feel any as she left the kitchen.

That night, in the workshop, as Dean stoked a fire in the stove, Sam told him, "So...Bela came on to me today."

Dean paused with a log in his hand, sap gumming grubby over his fingers, and shot Sam an incredulous look. "Are you kidding me?" He shook his head, disgusted. "She pulled that shit on me couple days after we got up here, and I told her you gave it to me sweeter than she could ever hope - "

" _Please_ tell me you didn't actually - "

"Just why in the _hell_ would she think she could get a different answer outta you?" Dean went back to making a fire, more aggressively than before. Sam heard his eyes change. "Gotta have a talk with her, obviously."

"Fine, but...don't choke her out, or-or throw her through a wall or anything, okay?" Sam all but begged. "She backed off soon as she realized I wasn't interested." He paused, not sure whether to share this next thing or not. "And I didn't even pick up that she was flirting with me 'til pretty much just now."

Dean stopped again, then sat back on his heels and brought a hand up to his face. When Sam came around to look at him, his eyes were squeezed shut and he was pinching the bridge of his nose. Like he had a headache.

"What?" Sam asked, a little defensively.

"Nothing." Dean dropped his hand and finished up with the fire, slamming the stove's door. "Just _really glad_ I came right out and said so when I had a thing for you." He glanced at Sam. "Seven years in the Rockies didn't do your social skills any favors, huh?"

The talk must have gone well, because Bela didn't hit on Sam anymore after that. She and Dean kept hanging out, though.

As for Castiel, Dean ignored him. Bobby, too, to a lesser extent. He was polite, answered when he talked to him, but overall sort of avoided him.

"Just been so goddamn long," Dean told Sam one night. "Don't know how to act around him."

Maybe that was for the best. Bobby had obviously missed Dean, was clearly thrilled to have him back. But Sam couldn't help noticing a pained, uncomfortable look on his face whenever Dean broke out the casual telekinesis, or he lit something without a match, or his eyes went black. Which happened all the time.

As Dean made stew one night, ingredients floating casually in the air around him until they were needed, and Bobby side-eyed him with his mouth pressed into a thin line in his beard, Sam wondered if he shouldn't ask him to cut back on the demon shit for his dad's sake. He nixed that idea almost immediately. Dean was a demon, there was no changing that. His powers were a big part of who he was, his everyday life. And Sam was sure he was already more than aware of how Bobby felt.

At least he was getting off the property every once in a while. About a week after they arrived, he started tagging along with Bela on her trips into town, wearing a few more protective and shielding charms than just Rufus's ring. He was eager to check on the car.

"You need to stay inside the protective warding," Castiel stated. Sam hadn't even mentioned leaving. "Talismans won't be sufficient to hide you from those actively looking for you. You need to learn to cloak yourself."

Sam wasn't all that bothered about not going on supply runs. Dean picked stuff up for him, things Sam had specifically asked for himself and things Dean just thought he needed. Like their mattress.

It was queen-sized, brand-name. Had to be wedged into the van and pried back out. It was also memory foam, which Sam wasn't sure he was a fan of, but after seeing how damn proud Dean was of himself, he wasn't about to say that. He definitely slept well on it (although he still felt strangely tired most days).

Sex was easier, too. Felt more natural.

Having a real bed changed things some in the workshop. They'd already been given the go-ahead to move into it for real, since Bobby and Bela rarely used it. But as soon as the air mattress was deflated, actual sheets showed up, and pillows, and a down comforter, dark gray. They unpacked their bags. The laptop, a stack of notebooks, and Vaughn's box took up residence on the floor by Sam's side; Dean's had a pile of books and magazines, the boombox, and the tape-wrapped angel blade.

"God _damn_ ," Dean marveled one snow-quiet, cloud-padded afternoon. "Would you just look at us, keepin' up with the Joneses? Quite the little love nest we've got going on in here." He'd been laying on his back, fingers laced behind his head, but now he pushed himself up to look at Sam. "Think we oughta hang some curtains? Go to Ikea and shop for prints?"

"Shut up." Sam, almost dozing, planted a bare foot on Dean's hip like he was about to shove him off the mattress. "Jerk."

"It's just so freaking _domestic_ , is all I'm saying. Bitch."

"We lived together in my cabin," Sam pointed out. "And ever since."

"Barely," Dean replied. "That was different."

And he was right. It was.

* * *

Christmas Eve rolled around after they'd been in the Appalachians about two and a half weeks, and found Sam, as usual, in Bobby's study with him. It was a cozy space, full of books and almost charmingly haphazard. Almost. Sam knew better than to try and organize at all, though, from experiences at Bobby's place in Sioux Falls; he knew where everything was, and had a sixth sense for when stuff had been touched without his permission.

They'd been quiet for a long time, Sam (illegally) looking at pictures of documents in a university library on his laptop, Bobby parsing fragments written in an obscure variant of Aramaic. They both had cups of coffee long gone cold on their desks, and Dean had tossed down the maps he'd been tasked with ages ago and declared he needed a break. God only knew where Bela and Castiel were. Sam almost jumped when Bobby unexpectedly cleared his throat.

"Got something to tell you," he said quietly, when Sam looked at him.

"Uh..." That ignited Sam's nerves right away. He closed his laptop. "Okay?"

Bobby eyed him for a long second, during which Sam only got more apprehensive, and then started.

"Never expected to see you hunting again." He stated it as a fact. "Or with somebody. Either, y'know, a hunting partner, or the other kinda partner, or both...but you are, and I'm glad." He nodded to Sam's legs. "I'm glad you got fixed up. And complicated as I feel about it, I guess I'm glad you're with Dean. He's good for you; takes good care of you the way I think you need."

Sam was starting to blush by then, and stumbled over his words when he spoke. "I...yeah. Me, too."

"I'll be honest with you." There was a long pause before Bobby continued, and when he did, he was staring at nothing. "I never expected to see my boy again, either. At all. Much less damn near _married_ to somebody, for all intents and purposes."

Sam tried to say something. He wasn't even sure what. But he half-sputtered it and then gave up, face hot and heart tripping.

"Am I _wrong_?" Bobby pressed.

"N-no...no." Sam swallowed. "Guess not." Although he kind of wondered what Dean would think about that. Should he even tell him?

"You mean...so much to him." Bobby shook his head, wonderingly. "You were right. He definitely don't feel things like an ordinary demon does." He fixed Sam with a sharp gaze. "Asked him how it makes him feel, being with you. Back in town, at Bill's station. We never talked much about that kinda stuff even back when he was human, but he answered." Bobby shifted in his chair. "Know what he said?"

"What?" Sam asked quietly, hands on his knees, squeezing.

"He told me when things're at their best between you two," Bobby answered, "everything's beautiful, and nothing hurts."

Sam had been expecting, even fearing, a lot of things. That wasn't one of them. "He...he said that? Seriously?"

"Direct quote," Bobby confirmed.

Sam sat back in his chair, a weight hanging off his heart, pulling him down. Anchoring and grounding him, too, though.

He hadn't seen any Vonnegut in Dean's books, but he hadn't really been paying attention. Maybe he ought to look again.

"Anyway." Bobby was uncomfortable. Sam saw it in the dip of his jaw and set of his shoulders. He rolled himself over to a cluttered bookshelf. "That's why I'm giving you this. For Dean."

He went to stand, which he _could_ do, just not well and not for very long. Because of his arthritis and joint damage.

"Here, lemme - " Sam got up himself, but Bobby forced him back down with a withering glare.

"I got it," he snapped, and grabbed a worn wooden box off the very top before lowering himself unsteadily into his chair. "You're as bad as Bela. I don't belong in a nursing home quite yet, promise." Turning to Sam, he opened the box. The lid blocked most of Sam's view, but he saw slivers of a few things: a pocketknife, a set of keys, a black-and-white photograph of a woman with light hair and eyes. Bobby dug out something from the side Sam couldn't see. After closing the box and setting it aside, he wheeled himself up to Sam and handed over what he'd unearthed.

It was a necklace. Sam let the knotted leather cord unspool in his fingers, looking at the pendant. Bronze; solid, judging by the weight. Tribal-looking. It was a face that fell somewhere between that of a human and a bull, with horns and a spiral on the forehead. More of an amulet, really.

Dean wasn't a jewelry guy, beyond the ring that let him keep his eyes clear around Castiel, but...this did look like something he'd wear.

"Was gonna give it to him before he disappeared," Bobby said with a heavy sigh as Sam examined the amulet. "It's a 'safety symbol,' apparently. Egyptian. No idea if it does anything for real, and I ain't superstitious - any more'n you gotta be, in our line of work - but I knew he was getting into some dangerous stuff and I figured it couldn't hurt."

"So..." Sam forced his eyes up to Bobby's. "Why don't you give it to him now?"

"Be better coming from you," Bobby replied, in a tone that more or less promised he wasn't about to elaborate.

"All right." Very carefully, Sam wound up the cord, then tucked the pendant in and put the whole thing in his pocket. He understood. The gravity of it settled low inside him like a piece of smooth metal, alongside the knowledge of how Dean really felt about him. "Thank you."

He'd ordered a _Best of the Seventies_ rock CD and a Zeppelin poster online, a concession to the prints Dean had joked about, and had Bela pick them up from Bobby's PO box. But those could wait for Dean's birthday. He wrapped the amulet that night, in a page from a mistranslated Bible they didn't use anymore, and put it away. He hid it in his jeans. Unlike his flannels, Dean didn't steal those; they were too long on him.

That Christmas was, hands down, the best Sam'd ever had. He and Dean had sex twice, once when Sam woke up around nine and once in the evening, and showered together. Dean made pancakes. As Sam was eating, Dean put a bottle of beer in front of him.

"Kinda early, isn't it?" Sam asked with a frown, swallowing his mouthful.

"It's Christmas!" Dean proclaimed, opening the bottle with his ring. "You gotta drink on Christmas. You and Bela, 'cause you're the only ones who can. And it's a tradition."

"Oh. It's tradition." Sam raised his eyebrows.

"I spent every Christmas with Bobby, when I was alive." Dean rolled the bottle around on its rim. "No matter what was going on. We had the best food, we watched stupid movies, and we drank. And it was awesome." He pushed the beer closer to Sam. "You deserve an awesome Christmas."

There was something kind of sweet about that, Sam could admit. Plus, Dean hardly ever talked about his life before, especially the parts of it he'd spent with Bobby, and it seemed like the memories he dredged up always cut bleeding furrows through him that took forever to close or at least cover. So Sam grabbed the bottle.

"All right, fine." He took a sip, and it was really good. Local microbrew, going off the label. Deliverance Brewing Co., with a crudely-drawn picture of a salaciously-grinning, banjo-holding hillbilly on it. Classy. "Nothing but beer, though."

"Like I'd waste the good stuff on you," Dean said with a snort. "Lightweight."

Sam had to admit, Dean might be onto something with the whole "drinking-on-Christmas" idea. He only had enough to get, at most, a light buzz, but that was nice when it came on, combined with knowing he didn't have to do anything or be anywhere anytime soon. Not to mention spending the day with people who were important to him.

It started snowing hard around noon, everything soft and muffled, almost womb-like in the forest. Ashcroft slept at Sam's feet and Powell was next to him on the couch, head on his lap, as he called Ellen, Jo, Ash, Garth, and Charlie, checking in on them and wishing them a happy holiday. For once, it at least sounded like they were all doing great.

Even Castiel was in a good mood. His (very short) daily practice with Sam went more gently than usual, and Sam finally took half a step forward: shakily lifting a pen on purpose. It might've been the alcohol glowing soft under his skin, but it seemed to be the best present he could've given Castiel.

When they all five (seven, including the dogs) gathered to watch _It's a Wonderful Life,_ though, the angel was pretty put out by all the inaccuracies.

"Bells have absolutely nothing to do with us," he informed anyone who would listen, afterwards. "We were created with our wings; we don't have to earn them. And a single low-caste guardian angel would never be able to erase someone from the timeline on their own, especially a human who had such a profound effect on other people."

They were crammed into the kitchen, where Dean had made a ham. Watching him take it out of the oven made Sam realize he'd never had one before. Not like this, at least. Standing at the counter mashing potatoes, Dean went to pat Castiel's shoulder. Castiel jerked violently away from him, which didn't seem to bother Dean any.

"All right, Clarence," he said condescendingly. "It's okay, we get it."

Castiel eyed Dean warily for a long moment, like he was a jigsaw puzzle he wanted to finish, but whose pieces were sharp-edged enough to take off a finger.

"Do you call me that because of the movie?" he asked eventually.

Bela, on roughly her seventh glass of wine by then (she'd hit the tradition harder than Sam), dissolved into giggling. It was contagious; Sam was laughing before too long, as well. Bobby just shook his head.

"Idjits," he muttered as Dean put a full plate in front of him.

Sam didn't remember the amulet until that night, after they'd had sex and the beer had evaporated in his system. He was sitting on their mattress in sweatpants, scribbling down a couple research questions for tomorrow or the next day, when a plastic shopping bag with something really heavy in it landed next to him, sinking instantly into the memory foam.

"There ya go," Dean said when Sam looked up at him. He was standing naked at the workbench, where he kept his weapons and clothes, back to Sam. "Merry Christmas." He glanced at him after a second. "Saw those when we went down a few days ago, thought they looked, y'know. Sufficiently nerdy."

Sam opened the bag to reveal a boxed set of four thick books. _A Game of Thrones_ _, a Clash of Kings_...

"Oh!" Sam looked at Dean again. "I-I read about these. They're gonna make 'em into a TV show; I've been meaning to check them out."

"Well, the cashier warned me about all the sex scenes in there, so I might take a crack at 'em once you're done." Dean pulled on a pair of boxers.

"Thanks, Dean." Sam set the books carefully aside for the moment, then got up, reaching into a stack of his jeans on one of the shelves. "I've...got something for you, too."

Dean accepted the flat little package, eyebrows rising as he noted Sam's choice of wrapping paper. As he opened it, Sam quietly offered, "I got it from your dad. After...after he said you and me are basically married, and...I agreed."

Dean didn't react physically when the heavy bronze hit his rough palm, but somehow, Sam knew he flinched anyway. It was something inside him, maybe. Or around his eyes. Someone screaming internally at the knife in their flesh because they couldn't afford to show weakness.

"Crap," Sam blurted. "Sorry. Just...forget I said anything, okay? There's other stuff, I can - " He'd half-turned already when Dean spoke, so low Sam barely picked it up over the crackle of tonight's fire.

"No." Dean looked at him, and his pupils had swelled to cover his irises, but his eyes weren't full black. "It's perfect, Sammy." He slipped the cord over his head, and the pendant came to rest on his bare, freckle-dusted skin. Right above the tuft of hair between his pectorals. "I...I love it."

A long quiet followed. Dean didn't break it by coughing or clearing his throat awkwardly, or changing the subject, like he usually might've. He just put on a T-shirt. And one of Sam's flannels.

"Ready for bed?" he asked him eventually.

"Yeah."

So they got under the covers together, Dean throwing an arm over Sam and scooting up close to him right away. Face buried in the hair on the back of Sam's head, he mumbled again, "Merry Christmas."

"I love you," Sam responded.

The angular shape of the amulet was pressed into his back. Drowsily, he imagined his soul perching on it, a solid place where it could rest. And be close to Dean. He was sheltered here, protected...loved. Even the very best times in his life before couldn't compare to this.

Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.


	25. Chapter 25

_I know I'm a huge hypocrite. It used to drive me up the wall when Dad refused to take a break because he was hurt. I couldn't stand him calling Bobby to ask about cases before the cast came off, or scanning newspapers before the stitches came out, and then there was that one time, after the rawhead. He wasn't even back on solid food yet and I came home from school and found him packing us up for a witch hunt. Pretty sure that was one of the worst fights we've ever had._

 _I don't want to admit it, but...I think I might get why he was like that. Why he did that. I don't think I can handle it much longer. This...itch._

 _I'm not talking about getting out there and physically tracking down a werewolf or something. I'm still messed up, I get it. I just barely got out of the hospital. But nobody will let me do anything and it's killing me._

 _I could do research for people. I could look up cases and hand them out, like Bobby does. I could go over the Roadhouse's books for Ellen. I could do school stuff - I was supposed to graduate this year!_

 _But there's... nothing. Ash comes in with San Andreas. Jo comes in with Lord of the Rings. Bobby says I need to take it easy. Ellen says it'll take time. And I get that. I get it. I'm taking the antibiotics and the painkillers, I'm keeping it elevated, I'm letting it heal. But what nobody seems to get is that I'm ready to stop being useless._

 _I'm not delirious anymore and I can sit upright. I can read, I can write, I can make phone calls. I can help._

 _I want to help!_

 _Every time I lay down to go to sleep, it's like Dad's standing over me and I can hear him reminding me that people are dying out there. I could stop it, or help other hunters stop it, but I'm not, and that's eating me away._

 _He'd tell me I'm not doing anybody any favors like this, if he wasn't [illegible]_

 _He'd tell me it's past time I found a way to make myself useful._

 _\- Personal journal of Sam Winchester, c. 2001_

* * *

It was about a week after New Year's (celebrated "right," as Dean put it, with alcohol and illegal fireworks that scared the dogs half to death) that the Second Trial came up again.

Sam was alone in Bobby's study, on his laptop. Bobby himself had checked out to do some "solo research," which was code for taking a nap. Castiel was outside. Bela was in town. Dean had gone with her initially, but then gotten bored and teleported back to watch _Jeopardy_. The den was only one room over, so until he'd dug out his headphones to block the noise, Sam had been treated to him hollering answers ("What is the Suez Canal?!") and then whooping loudly when he got it right.

Sipping ginger ale because his stomach had been bothering him again, or maybe something in his chest, Sam looked up when Dean appeared in the doorway. "Commercial break?"

"Yep," Dean replied with a grimace. "Can you believe Bobby doesn't have TiVo?" He walked into the study. "So how's the research going today?"

"Good." Sam turned to his laptop to pull up a Wikipedia page he'd just closed. "Actually, I, uh, got bored, and Googled your name...the Knight one. _And_ it turns out you're not a Knight."

"Oh, really."

"Yeah, you're a _Duke_ of Hell." Sam pointed at his screen. "Also, you can 'cause love.' Which I really wish I would've known about nine months ago." He raised his eyebrows.

"Well, shit, me, too," Dean commented. "I've just been doing it the hard way, like some kinda idiot." He picked up an old book that'd been resting on Bobby's desk. "You know they recycle those names, right?"

"Really?" Sam turned to face Dean fully.

"Yeah." Dean nodded. "Lucifer named all the original Knights and Princes and Lords and everything."

"Like God naming the angels." Sam brought up a blank Word document on his laptop. "A-a perversion of it."

"I mean, I guess, but it was more like re-naming 'cause they all already had human names to start with..." Dean started to flip through the book, but abruptly lost interest. "Anyway. It's tradition now or some shit. Big-shot demon dies, his name goes on the roster, next poor bastard whose soul Cain carves up gets saddled with it. So." Sam heard him shrug. "Maybe the original Dantalion could force love or whatever it is you said."

"So only Knight names get recycled?" Sam typed furiously. "I thought nobody'd ever killed a Prince or a Lord before. Mostly because they didn't leave Hell all that often 'til..." He glanced up at a massive calendar on the wall, months going back a decade, that Bobby used to track demon activity. "...recently. Even if one of them did die, though, can anybody besides Lucifer make one?"

"I don't know, I didn't care and nobody ever told - " Dean stopped abruptly. "Dude. Are you seriously writing this down?"

"No." Sam minimized the document, shoulders hitching up into a guilty hunch.

Dean snorted in fake disgust. "God. Can't even turn the geek off for a minute, can you?" He paused then, and Sam felt fingers in his hair after a second. It felt nice. "Gettin' kinda long again." Dean swept Sam's bangs off his forehead. "Want me to trim it?"

"Yeah, over my dead body." Sam slapped Dean's hand out of his hair. Gently. "How's, uh, _Jeopardy_ going today?"

"Awesome. If I were actually playing, we'd be rich."

Dean took a seat on the edge of Sam's desk, exhaling. His amulet, winking bright, pulled Sam's eyes right away. Dean had worn it constantly since Christmas. Bobby smiled, in the eyes, at least, every time he caught sight of it.

When Castiel first saw the bronze pendant on Dean, it'd very obviously thrown him for a loop. He wouldn't tell Sam anything about what it was or meant to him, though. No matter how much Sam badgered him.

"All right, let's get it over with. I know that feeling." Dean broke the silence. "The one you had when I first walked in. What were you looking at, and what's on your mind?"

Turning reluctantly back to his laptop, Sam brought up what he'd been poring over for the past couple hours: lore on Purgatory, Hell, and souls. There wasn't a whole lot of information out there. Not that rang true, at least. Sam was pretty sure he'd managed to scrape together almost all of it

Dean bent forward to look. Sam cleared his throat after a while.

"I've been...thinking about the Second Trial, recently," he admitted. "It feels like it's time to get started on it."

Dean nodded a little, taking that in. He opened his mouth to say something, but Sam cut him off before he could.

"I'm not sick anymore," Sam pointed out. "Obviously. Haven't been for weeks. And we found Bobby."

Dean pulled in a breath.

"I know my Messiah powers were the real big thing here," he went on, "but I've learned a ton about all this stuff, with Bobby. And thanks to Cas, I've come a long way in keeping my...abilities under control. What I am hidden." It was a lot like standing up straight, which his father had used to needle him about all the time when he was a teenager and had started slouching to hide his rapidly-increasing height. It was tough at first, but it quickly became second nature when he put some effort into it. "I haven't had a slip-up in a few days. You know you would've felt it if I had, but I haven't so much as made a lightbulb flicker."

"Oh, he's 'Cas' now, huh?" Dean didn't sound very impressed by the nickname. "Okay, listen, Sam, I - "

Sam knew he should let him talk, and didn't have to be an empath to pick up on Dean's mounting frustration with him. There was just so much he had to remind him of before they actually discussed this. He practically had to interrupt him.

"I get that we needed the downtime," Sam started. "And I know it's not like we haven't been doing anything at all, but...I can't help feeling guilty. About spinning my wheels for almost a month." Sam spread his hands. "The longer we wait, the worse things're gonna get as far as the demon sit - "

 _"Sam."_ Stuff rattled on Bobby's shelves as Dean stopped Sam in his tracks, and Sam wasn't sure if it was Dean's voice or his mind doing it. "I... _really_ need you to shut up for a second, okay? I get it, I really do. Honest." Voice dropping back down to a normal volume, Dean lifted both hands. "And I agree with you."

Sam, gearing up for a major argument, hadn't been expecting that. "You...do?"

"Guess I'm just a little surprised you don't wanna stay here longer, keep your claws in all...this." Dean waved a hand to indicate everything in Bobby's office. "You've been nerding out twenty-four-seven. Would've thought this was your ideal vacation."

Sam snorted.

"But, anyway...'course I do." Dean shook his head, incredulous. "Agree with you, I mean. I _did_ say we were gonna do this and I was gonna help you. I know how bad you want it, how important it is, and...you're right." He huffed. "We found Bobby, he's totally on board with it, and Feathers has definitely locked down your Jesus powers." Dean pointed at Sam, eyeing him. "Only good thing you're gonna hear me say about him."

Sam opened his mouth, shaking his head and spreading his hands again. "I definitely get how you two feel about each other, and why, but he's been super useful..."

"Didn't say he hadn't been," Dean defended, looking at Sam. Examining him, really, especially his eyes. Sam got the odd feeling Dean was waving the psychic or demonic equivalent of a TSA wand around him, just waiting for it to crackle. It must not have; he eventually sighed and continued. "I'd like you to go a little longer than just a few days without slipping, but it seems like you've got your lid on pretty tight over there. And you're right about another thing. Longer we wait, the shittier it gets out there."

Dean slid off the desk, stood up. "How d'you feel about it? You good, or you wanna knock off another hunt first?"

"I'm good." If they had all the time in the world, a warm-up case might be a good idea. But they were at war, like Gordon had told Sam over the phone months ago. Every life lost gathered like a drift of dead flies deep in his stomach. And as long as the Gates were open, they ran the risk of Hell realizing Sam was the guy they were looking for.

"You need your hair cleaned up, at least..."

"Dean, if I see you coming at me with scissors, I swear to god." Sam brandished his Kurdish dagger, always close at hand, only half-playfully. "I-I'll start cutting stuff off."

"You think you'd see me coming if I didn't want you to?" Dean scoffed. "But seriously. I promise I'm not gonna touch your hair. We can hit a Great Clips or something."

Mollified, Sam put the knife away.

"We'll take a day or two to get everything set up." Dean leaned against the desk, all business. "Your hair cut, our crap packed...everybody involved filled in. Then we gotta figure out an innocent soul for you to spring. And then - " Dean smiled. "We'll track down the reaper who got me in and outta Hell, back in the day. His name's Ajay. He's a taxi driver."

"But..." For the moment, Sam set aside how bad he'd like to hear about a reaper with a day job. "...why can't you just take me down?"

Sam knew he shouldn't have asked as soon as the last word was out.

"Well, y'know. I didn't..." Dean coughed. "Spend a whole lotta time in Hell when I wasn't. Actively getting my soul cut down. I wouldn't know where to take us." He glanced away, and his pupils briefly shivered. "Plus, I'm not totally sure I could get us topside again, either."

"Okay." Sam shouldn't have brought it up at all. Dean returning to Hell. "Ajay the taxi driver it is, then." In the den, the _Jeopardy_ theme suddenly blared from the TV. "Uh, wow. Long break, huh?"

"Can't miss it now that it's back, though." Dean patted Sam's knee. "Go ahead and take care of any more research you gotta do. Then we'll talk to Bobby at dinner, and start packing tonight."

Sam looked at his eyes as he straightened. His pupils had firmed back up. Dean left the room, and Sam leaned back.

 _That went...way better than I was afraid it might._

He reached for his ginger ale, but the can was empty. His stomach was feeling better, too, so Sam went to pour himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. He could use it. Now the conversation about the Second Trial was over with, he was fried, eyelids heavy and thoughts sluggish.

Sam could admit he wasn't looking forward to leaving Bobby's place. It was so...peaceful here, which wasn't something he was used to. When he took the mug out onto the porch, the sky was a January patchwork of blue and gray, and a light snow was falling.

Stress could probably account for what was going on with his stomach. Maybe even the pain in his chest. And it was only going to get worse, so he should really -

Having just taken a sip of coffee, Sam's thoughts stalled out as he choked. Then he was coughing, a wet, lung-ripping, eye-tearing hack dragging itself up out of his core. He doubled over, pale coffee slopping everywhere. Entire body shaking, Sam barely made it to the railing, clutching it in a death grip.

"You okay?" Of course Dean had heard. Bela'd probably heard, all the way down the mountain. "That sounds really bad."

"Fine," Sam somehow managed to gasp out, strangled. "Swallowed wrong."

"Oh." Dean sounded caught between concern and disgust, but with concern winning. "Lemme...go grab you a glass of water or something, okay?"

Sam couldn't even nod. It was a good thing Dean left when he did, and that he seemed to have decided to walk rather than teleport. Because as soon as the door closed, Sam felt something break off inside him, and come up with his next few coughs.

Red. It was just so damn _red_ , dark like it'd spurted straight out of a vein and made even more striking by the snow.

Sam had just coughed up blood.

At least the coughing itself was dying down. Sam tottered weakly down the steps to get a closer look at the scarlet splash.

It'd melted decently into the snow. Hot as Sam's insides. Suddenly, impulsively, he kicked more snow over it, enough to cover any hint of crimson and then some, and tamped it down for good measure.

Then he looked around, at the empty lot and forest. Bela was gone, Bobby was asleep. Dean wasn't back yet. Castiel was nowhere in sight. And Sam didn't think he should tell any of them about what'd just happened.

It wasn't even a big deal. He'd probably just had a nosebleed from the cold, dry air, high up enough in his nose to run down the back of his throat. And then some of it came up when he choked on the coffee.

Coffee could explain the color, too. Make it look darker and richer than it really was, mixed in.

Sam swallowed hard at the penny taste in his mouth, scrubbed at his lips with his sleeve. Sharing this wouldn't do anything but scare everybody for no good reason. They didn't need that right as they were about to do the Second Trial. Especially because Castiel was bound to kick up a fuss already.

Sam looked up as the door creaked open and banged shut, Dean coming out with a glass of water. Stepping over the puddles of coffee on the porch, he commented, "Nice mess, Sam." He glanced at him. "What're you doing down there?"

"Uh, cleaning off my boots." Sam shuffled them in the snow. "Got coffee on 'em."

"Right." Dean leaned over the railing to hand him his water. "You're just a - a _paragon_ of human grace and beauty, huh? And total not-grossness." He folded his arms. "Why wouldn't I wanna force you to love me?"

"That's an SAT word." Sam gulped at the water, washing away the last traces of blood. Dean shook his head.

"So you're okay now?"

"Yeah." If it happened again, Sam decided, he'd tell Dean. "I'm fine."

Otherwise, he didn't need to know.

* * *

Sam went out to practice that afternoon with Castiel. It was their routine now. He hadn't been exaggerating to Dean about how much better he was doing, and how much more control he had now; he didn't even need Castiel "guiding" him anymore.

Now that he was sure he ever really had. Part of him wondered if that hadn't been what was holding him back initially.

"You're doing extremely well, Sam," Castiel commented from nearby. "I hope you realize that."

Sam grunted in acknowledgment. He had three rocks in the air, feet from his outstretched hand, and was moving them slowly, clumsily around each other. His outbursts had always been effortless. Doing it on purpose...wasn't.

"I'm extremely impressed," Castiel continued. "Especially given the short time frame."

Sam nodded, and felt a drop of sweat run down the pounding hollow of one temple, despite how cold it was. His telekinesis wasn't anywhere near as easy and elegant as Dean's, but that was fine. He didn't plan on using his powers regularly if he could help it.

"The rest of my garrison have also been quite pleased by my updates," Castiel finished. "Not to mention my superiors."

Sam was done. The rocks bounced off the frozen ground when he closed his hand into a fist. Ashcroft and Powell, who'd come out with them, startled a little, then settled back down.

Sam shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it on the nearest tree branch. Hands on his hips, he focused on drawing in air, catching his breath. After a little while, he realized he could feel Castiel looking at him. He cracked an eye. "What?"

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah." Something tickled in Sam's chest. He ignored it. "Of course. Why d'you ask?"

"No particular reason."

Castiel dropped it, and Sam finished his cooldown. The angel didn't say anything else until he went to put his jacket back on, sweat chilling on his skin.

"In the coming months, we'll focus on more powers of yours besides just telekinesis and clairvoyance," Castiel told him. "Because, of course, there are many." He fell silent as the dogs approached him. "Zachariah...my commander. He may wish to meet with you, to discuss your potential and the possibilities. Once you reach a certain point."

"Right." Sam cleared his throat. "About that." He whistled and the dogs came readily to him, if slowly, tails wagging. They just ignored Dean these days. Castiel, they seemed to like. "I've been talking to Dean, and...we've decided now's a good time." Sam swallowed. "For the Second Trial."

Castiel practically flinched at that. He glared, and it was once in a blue moon Sam could read his feelings or tell what he was thinking, but he could swear there was betrayal in his eyes.

"You can't leave," Castiel snapped. "It's not safe outside the warding."

"But...I can shield myself now." Sam forwned. "No more hiccups. Wasn't that the whole point of me being on lockdown here? Keeping demons from sniffing me out while I was still out of control?"

"You haven't even gone a full week without an upset," Castiel stated, harsh. "That's hardly 'in control.'"

Sam swallowed again, something snagging bitter in his throat, then forced himself to smile as he shrugged. "Dean thinks i'm fine." Castiel's upper lip twitched. "Especially because we're in a time crunch. And what better place to practice all this - " Sam gestured to the rocks he'd just dropped. " - than on the road?"

"I have told you," Castiel started, teeth gritted, "in no uncertain terms, that you can't finish the Trials. Heaven is fully opposed." Castiel took a step closer. "Your blatant disregard for your self-preservation and your stubborn rebelliousness are very quickly becoming tiresome."

A sudden growl startled both of them, rattling and underlining the tension at the same time. Sam looked down. Ashcroft was on one side of him and Powell was on the other, both of them with their hackles up, ears down, and teeth bared.

A second passed. Castiel seemed as surprised as Sam; neither dog had so much as snapped at him or Dean since that first night. But Castiel backed off, and the dogs relaxed. Mostly. They still looked like they were on high alert.

Castiel looked up at Sam, no expression. "It would seem Dantalion's rubbing off on them."

Sam shook his head. "Are you just upset about...people who made crossroads deals or whatever flooding Heaven?"

"No, this is about _you_ ," Castiel shot back. "Your survival. Your ability to play your intended role and not throw all of Creation into chaos."

Sam sighed. "Are...you gonna stop us, then?"

There was a pause, and then it was like a switch flipped in Castiel. "Weird angry" to "almost smug." If he'd had visible feathers, they would've ruffled, and as it was, he nearly smiled.

"I won't have to," he replied, lifting his chin. "I'm aware Dantalion entered Hell with the help of a reaper when he was attempting the Trials himself. That's essentially the only option open to a non-demon." Castiel blinked. "But the reaper that assisted him two decades ago is dead."

Sam's mouth was dry, tongue numb and cracking. "How?"

"I don't know," Castiel answered, "and it hardly matters. The point here is that you have no other options. Dantalion can't ferry you to Hell himself, he's a fugitive. Obviously, I'm not going to help you, but even if I wanted to, an angel - especially a seraph - can't set wing inside the Gates without waging a full-on war."

"Then we'll find another reaper." Sam threw his hands up. "If that's the only way I'm getting to Hell."

"None of them will help you." Castiel spoke with a rock-solid certainty. "It's unlikely you'll even be able to speak with one. As a race, they pride themselves on their neutrality and their devotion to their given duty. You've spent a significant portion of your life studying monsters, beasts, supernatural creatures. You should know this, Sam."

Sam didn't see a point in getting into the research he'd actually done on reapers.

"One getting involved in affairs on either side of the Veil, as the reaper who assisted Dantalion did, is so shockingly rare as to be considered a fluke," Castiel went on. "You'd have better luck going to Death himself."

Sam barked out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Right. Yeah, if I could get to Death, I wouldn't need him to take me to Hell."

"He's risen with the recent spate of demonic activity." Castiel seemed to realize, even as he spoke, that he maybe shouldn't be telling Sam this. "At least none of the other Horsemen have been released...yet."

Sam stared. Then, "So how do I find him?" Castiel almost laughed before answering.

"You can't," he stated, flat. "Death is..." Castiel paused, glanced briefly upwards. "Very nearly on par with God. He's a force of nature, tracking spells don't work, I don't know where he is...not that I would tell you even if I could." He shook his head. "There is no finding him unless he wants to be found."

Sam said nothing, a muscle jumping in the side of his jaw.

"Sam." Castiel's voice gentled considerably. "I'm sorry. I really am. But it's time you gave up on the Trials. This isn't how you save the world." He walked past Sam, paused to glance over his shoulder. "I'm...going to go and speak to my garrison. I'll see you later."

He left, wind gusting off his wings and over Sam. Sam closed his eyes and grimaced at the chilly breeze. Once it'd died down, he took a second, then patted his hip and led the dogs back to the cabin.

It was slow going. His leg kept cramping on him.

* * *

"So, I'm just gonna be totally level with you." Dean raised both hands, palms out. "I don't know how much I like this idea."

"No, it'll be okay. I promise." Sam dropped onto their mattress. "We literally just had a whole conversation about how good I'm doing. Remember?"

It was dark in the workshop besides the fire Dean'd just built. Sam leaned over to turn on his lamp, bathing both of them in a soft white pool. When he straightened back up, Dean's arms were folded and his lips were pressed into a thin line.

"Yeah, I remember," Dean agreed. "I also remember what a vision does to you." He paced, from the stove to the door. "It takes you right down, it wipes you out, it's scary as shit to watch, and - " He turned to Sam. "In case you forgot, I'm a demon. I don't do scared."

"I have triggered one before, though." Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean. "On purpose, with Cas. And it was fine! I stayed upright and everything."

"That was just a little one." Dean shook his head, glancing away. "You saw Bela tripping over one of the stupid dogs. You didn't track down _Death_."

"All I'm saying is I know how to do it," Sam replied, reasonably, taking off his boots. "A-and I think I should at least try."

Dean just stared him down. Sam stared right back. He'd come up with the vision thing during dinner, seething at the dead end they'd run up against, and it was like a door he'd thought was part of the wall opened for him. This was probably the only shot they had. He hadn't had any more nosebleeds. He was ready.

"Yeah, okay, I get that, but..." Dean broke eye contact, biting his bottom lip. "Are you...sure about this? About Death?"

"What d'you mean?"

"Just feels kinda like you might be rushing this. I'm wondering if you shouldn't think this whole thing over some more before you knock yourself out. Literally." Sam frowned up at him. Dean rolled his eyes, then sat down next to him. "Look, Sam. I've. Dealt with stuff like this before, a couple times." He looked sideways at him, green glowing on the rims, pupils deep and troubled. "Gods and. Things."

"Seriously? Which - " Sam was itching for his laptop all of a sudden, a notebook, anything. "Which ones? When? What happened?"

"Why the hell's it matter?" Dean snapped.

"I'm..." Sam sucked in a breath. _Focus_. "I...guess it doesn't." He coughed, looked at Dean. "I would like to hear about it sometime, though."

"Guess you're SOL, then, 'cause I don't remember any details." Dean shrugged and Sam wondered if, sometimes, "I don't remember" was just code for "I don't wanna talk about it." "Might ask Bobby if you're really burning up." He reached over, hesitated for a second, put his hand on Sam's shoulder anyway. It was warm and smelled like ash and sulfur. "I brought it up 'cause it's not fun, dealing with things like that. We might be biting off more than we can chew here."

Sam looked away, running a hand through his hair and licking his lips.

"Hey." The hand came off his shoulder, but Dean moved closer, nudging him. "Didn't you summon Marduk once? Swear you told me that. At your cabin?"

"Uh, yeah." Sam tipped his head back, sighed. "Got a...Sumerian spellbook. Well, copy of a copy, and in terrible condition. Can't believe the rite even worked."

"And how'd it go?"

Sam realized he'd taken half a second too long to answer as soon as he spoke. "Fine."

Sighing loudly, Dean patted Sam's back. "Okay. Right."

"Dean..." Sam looked at him again. "Death is kind of our only option here. But if you're really worried, and I definitely get why you are, we can try to figure something else out."

It was a long, long time before Dean spoke again, eyes black for a fraction of a second. "Clarence tell you what killed Ajay?"

"He said he didn't know." Sam glanced at the door, closed, locked, and warded. "Is he back yet?"

"Nope."

He must still be talking to the other angels, Sam reasoned. He didn't think it was time to worry yet. And the further away Castiel was, the smaller the chance of him interrupting if Sam did do this.

"Guess we oughta see if this'll even work, first." Dean sighed. "You finding Death with a vision." He looked hard at Sam. "You're laying down for this, though. Don't care how cocky you're feeling about your powers, I don't want you killing yourself when you go down."

"Right." Sam shook his head. "Of course."

Boots off, Sam stretched out on the bed. Dean turned off the lamp and put Sam's head in his lap, cradling it in his folded legs. Dean touched him with rough fingertips, brushing hair away from his temples, and Sam closed his eyes.

He focused hard on Death and finding him as he did what he'd done last time: visualized feeling along the dark and furrowed underside of his brain, turning a valve there, and letting what lay on the other side pour into the waiting space in his head. One of Castiel's rare pieces of good advice had been to think of this as a latent power, always present and ready for him to call on it. Even then, the process had been mostly trial and error.

Only a couple minutes in, Sam realized he didn't actually know how to direct a vision. The Bela one had just kind of...happened. Hopefully, thinking about what he wanted to see would be enough.

This time was just like the first one, in that it didn't come right away. It took a few passes, kept getting derailed by the constant noise of Sam's thoughts. And when the pain blossomed, Sam choked on a raw moment of panic, utterly convinced this was the worst mistake he'd ever made.

That faded, thankfully.

Clairvoyance was still kind of the opposite of telekinesis: it hurt much less when it was done on purpose. It still felt like somebody was trying to excise Sam's sinuses with a can opener as the vision waxed. But it wasn't the worst pain he'd ever had anymore.

It faded more quickly, too, and then there was a series of flashes. Vignettes, shivering like they were coming off an old-school projector, thousands of tiny, fractured pictures Sam couldn't process encrusting a few big enough for him to understand. Like diamond dust. It reminded him of that very first vision he'd had, right after the First Trial.

There was Castiel, glaring down at a bottle of beer. Sunlight shattering off a brilliant metal arch. Dean glancing up through his lashes and blinking his eyes liquid black. It was film ticking across the bulb at a fever rate, someone in the cutting room going slowly crazy as they spliced together a story that didn't make sense.

It stabilized eventually and Sam got a clear scene, one he saw as crisply as if he were actually there.

It was a restaurant, dark. There was a koi tank set into one wall, its moon-faint, ethereal light reflecting off the metallic accents of a Chinese dragon painted on another. All of the tables except for one were empty, a tealight in a red glass only barely picking out the faces of the two people sitting at it.

There was an old man, skeletal, his dark hair slicked back and a suit somehow well-tailored and ill-fitting at the same time draped over his thin frame. In the weak light, his face looked like a skull except for the prominent nose, eye sockets full of shadow.

And Sam saw himself, too. His hair was different. Shorter. He looked pale and nervous, hands folded on the table, but there was a familiar set of determination to his eyes and jaw. It was weird to see it from this angle.

Dean and Castiel were nowhere in sight.

This was Death, Sam knew. It had to be. He seemed to be studying Sam, who waited tensely. Something glittered far back in the depths of his eye sockets. It was a shock when he spoke.

"You're right," Death agreed in cultured, mild tones. "It definitely is. I'm a very busy being, Sam, as I'm sure you know." He reached for the Chinese-style teacup in front of him, lifting it delicately to his thin lips. He had a large ring on one withered hand, with a square white stone. "But I think I'll help you anyway."

Sam saw himself start to react. He straightened up in his chair, eyes widening. Then the vision dropped him.

Sam jerked in Dean's lap, eyes breaking open and breath stuttering. It felt like one of the violent twitches that sometimes came before sleep. His pulse beat painful under the corners of his jaw, and he was alone and present in his body again as he sat up.

"Crap." Dean sounded equal parts relieved and frustrated. "You okay? I hate watching that, man." Sam glanced over his shoulder at him. He'd barely noticed a wet tickle on his upper lip when Dean grimaced. "You got a, uh, nosebleed."

"Shoot," Sam mumbled. He started to dig through his backpack, hands feeling like they were mittened in gauze, as Dean got up behind him. The blood crossed his lips and he licked reflexively at it, wincing at the copper wash on his tongue. Dean tapped him on the shoulder with a roll of paper towels after a second. "Oh. Thanks."

"So..." Dean sat back down. "What'd you see?"

"Uh." Sam turned towards him, a wadded paper towel crushed against his nose. "Death. He was...he was telling me he was gonna help me."

"Are you serious?" Dean asked, disbelieving.

"'S what I saw." Sam tipped his head back.

"Well..." When he looked at Dean, he seemed troubled, staring at nothing in particular. "I mean, these visions of yours, they've been pretty accurate so far. Haven't they?" Sam swallowed. Blood dripped thick down the back of his throat. "Bobby's alive. Demons showed up to kill Kubrik and his family. So if you actually, really saw Death agreeing to help us out...that changes things some. I guess." Dean glanced at Sam, sidelong. "Where's he gonna be?"

"St. Louis," Sam realized even as he spoke. "I saw the arch. He was in a-a Chinese restaurant."

Dean blinked, long and slow, then deliberately asked, "Sam, you got any idea how many Chinese restaurants there have to be in St. Louis?"

"There was a mural on one of the walls. A dragon." Details spun up. "And an aquarium full of koi fish."

"Oh, sure," Dean agreed sarcastically. "That narrows it down."

"It does," Sam argued. His nose was still bleeding. "I can find it, I know I can. I just don't know when it was, so we gotta leave as soon as possible." He looked at Dean. "Dean. You're a hunter."

"I'm a demon," Dean stated flatly.

"You're a _hunter_ ," Sam repeated. "We both are. We're the same, we were raised in it, and we just started up again a few months ago. Together." With his free hand, he reached for Dean's, finding it and gripping tight. "Aren't you ready to get back on the road? To get back to work?"

Dean didn't look at Sam as he sighed loudly through his nose, then pulled his hand free and stood up. He shook his head.

"That's nasty," he muttered, eyeing the paper towel where Sam could feel blood starting to seep against his fingers. "Let's just get rid of it." He reached down and touched Sam's nose, eyes burning black. It cracked painfully high up inside as the bleed sealed off. Sam dropped the paper towel, blinking away a sudden crop of tears. Dean yawned, swayed, then steadied himself. "Far as Death in St Louis goes...s'pose checking it out's the least we can do. Shoot for leaving tomorrow, I gotta recharge and I know you do, too."

Sam washed the last of the blood off his face, relieved and exhausted. Visions always wiped him out, so he assumed that was all it was. After he and Dean had undressed and gotten into bed together, Dean mumbled, "Angel's gonna be an issue."

"Yeah..." Sam closed his eyes. "I know."

A pause. "Okay, lemme rephrase that, 'cause I'm not sure you're getting it. He's gonna be your issue."

"Nope, I got that." Dean was still wearing his amulet, and it was practically pressing a bruise into Sam's back. "I'll handle Cas in the morning, all right?"

"'Cas.'" Dean snorted. "You call him that, I call you Sammy - "

"Like my dad did. 'Cause you've got some kinda incest thing, apparently. Speaking of, are we still brothers?"

" - why don't I get a cute nickname?"

Sam cracked an eye, turned his head some. "You don't like Dandelion?"

"You know what, fuck you," was Dean's reply.

"Fuck you, too, then." Sam smiled.


	26. Chapter 26

_Based on what I've learned from interviews with reapers, Death is some combination of manager, king, and parent to them. They come from him and report to him. Unlike his reapers, Death spends most of his time in the lowest level of Hell or close to it. There is a ritual to summon him, and some of the lore seems to suggest he comes over to our side when things get bad enough – e.g., world wars, global plagues, ice ages, things like that._

 _We don't know a whole lot else. We don't really need to know, you'll never run into him._

 _Hopefully._

\- Gods and Archetypes, _Sam Winchester_

* * *

Bela took Sam, Dean, and their gear down the mountain pretty much first thing in the morning. Sam wasn't sure how she felt about them leaving, but Bobby obviously had mixed feelings. He'd already given the Trials his stamp of approval, but he'd also called them idjits when they told him they were leaving, made them promise to be careful and look after each other, told them to call him if they needed anything, and promised to do his best to help them out. In addition, he'd stressed they could come back to his place anytime they needed to. He wouldn't touch anything in the workshop that was theirs unless he had something life-or-death to work on.

It was a solid, comforting feeling, having a home to return to. Sam almost mentioned that to Dean, but didn't want to run the risk of him blowing up like he had about the beach house.

Speaking of Dean, he flung his arms out when he was reunited with his one true love, exclaiming, "Oh, baby, I've missed you!"

"You've seen it a couple times a week since we got here," Sam pointed out, eyeing the Impala. He was not jealous of a car. That'd be stupid.

"Well, that's true." Dean pulled the keys out. "But I haven't been driving her like she deserves." He stroked the black paint almost reverently as he popped the trunk. "She's a road car. She wants to hunt."

Sam took a second to shake his head and roll his eyes, then dumped his backpack and weapons. Before they climbed into the car, Dean stopped him with a question. "Okay, real quick. You absolutely sure about this?" There was something soft to his expression "Last chance to bow out. No judgement."

"I'm not 'bowing out,'" Sam said, deliberately. "I'm doing this."

"Yeah. I figured." Dean shrugged, then grabbed Sam's hand and gave it a warm squeeze. "Just wanted to make sure. Give you the option."

He went for the driver's door. Sam looked around, then sighed. "Keep expecting Castiel to pop up and tell me I'm not going anywhere."

"You said he spent, like, the whole damn night talking to the other birdbrains?" Dean paused. "And then he didn't say anything when you broke the news to him this morning."

"No. Didn't argue, didn't try to stop us. Just…walked off." It'd been both a relief and a thorn in Sam's side all the way down here, phantom barbs in tender flesh. Castiel hadn't even made any effort to get in the van with them. Just stayed up at Bobby's place, as far as Sam knew.

"Well, with any luck…" Dean flashed Sam a grin. "That's the last we're gonna see of him. 'Bye, 'bye birdie." He swung himself into his seat, and Sam did the same. "Seriously, maybe he just gave up. They do that sometimes, get so damn discouraged when the real world doesn't follow their script. No more 'well Heaven said you gotta do this,' no more holier-than-thou attitude, no more gross-ass feathers all over my goddamn car…"

Castiel appeared in the back seat then with a loud flap and strong gust. Sam and Dean both jumped, Dean nearly ripping the mirror free of its moorings.

"Speak of the devil," Sam muttered, a flare of Dean's sulfur in his nose.

"Son of a _bitch_!" Dean exclaimed, eyes gone jet. "Thought we finally got rid of you!"

"You can't stop us," Sam warned Castiel, tense. "You just can't, okay? This is something I'm doing no matter what."

"Yeah, you'd think you'd've picked up on that by now," Dean agreed. And good as it felt to have him backing Sam up, Sam still wasn't sure whether or not the two of them could actually win a fight against Castiel. Especially if he decided to summon his entire garrison.

"I have no intention of stopping you," Castiel stated testily.

"Sure."

"I _don't_." There was a flinty edge to his blue eyes. "Heaven is…busy. I haven't received any real guidance on how to handle this situation, despite trying for an audience all night. My initial orders were, obviously, to prevent you from completing even the Second Trial by any means necessary, but I'm no longer convinced that's a viable course of action. In the absence of orders, it's my choice how to proceed."

"You must be shitting yourself," Dean interjected. "Having to make a _choice_. Lemme guess, first time since God hung your wings on you?"

Castiel ignored him and addressed Sam. "I can't think of anything to say to you that would change your mind, or anything I could do to stop you that wouldn't change the overall plan." He added, "What little has been explained to me, at least. So I've decided that, as long as there's no way to deter you, I might as well come along and supervise. At least try to mitigate the damage."

Sam and Dean looked at each other.

"Fine." Dean growled, but his eyes cleared. He threw the car into reverse, aimed them at Missouri. Sam practically heard him tightening up, all the relaxing he'd managed up at Bobby's undone in a matter of seconds.

Sam eyed Dean, then scooted across the bench seat. Just close enough for them to feel each other's heat, Sam put a hand on Dean's knee. He rubbed reassuringly through the denim.

He might've imagined some of Dean's tension melting under his fingers, but what he didn't imagine was Dean shifting slightly so that their hips were pressed together, no space left between them.

* * *

They reached St. Louis by mid-January, pushing hard at Sam's insistence. The only time they stopped that wasn't for food or gas was to get Sam a quick haircut. It didn't look bad. Much better than Dean's attempt, anyway. Not that that was a high bar.

As soon as they had a motel room, Sam kicked into research mode. It took a couple hours, but he was pretty sure he'd found the restaurant that he saw in his vision. The Pearl and Lotus. Koi tank, dragon mural…it fit the bill.

Sam had no idea when what he'd seen was going to take place, so he headed down that evening with Castiel and Dean in tow, impatient to check it out. He wished he remembered what he'd been wearing in the vision. He hadn't even paid attention to that. Would it make a difference if he had on the wrong jacket?

"Looks like it's closed," Dean commented when they pulled up.

"That's not what they said when I called an hour ago." Sam walked up to the front. The neon OPEN sign and the name of the restaurant were both dead, the curtains in the front windows drawn, but when he tried the door, it was unlocked. He glanced over his shoulder at Castiel, then Dean. Neither of them looked thrilled, but they followed Sam when he went in.

It was dark, and washed in a dim red glow from the tea lights in glasses on the tables. Sam swallowed as a cold claw dragged itself through his stomach. The light from the koi tank in the back was faint and dreamy, the mural nothing but winking golden highlights. Between them, there was Death, seated at the table Sam had seen in his vision.

He'd been expecting him. He'd wanted him to be there. It was still a shock, ice water in his intestines and hot coals in his left calf.

"Sam Winchester." Death didn't sound at all surprised to see him. "You know, you've kept me waiting. I was almost beginning to think you weren't going to show up."

Sam swallowed again, and offered a quiet, "I'm sorry."

Death didn't reply, just looked him up and down. His eyes glittered in his deep sockets, and Sam saw them move to Dean and Castiel, too, who'd automatically come up to flank him. There was a faint swell of sulfur and lightning.

"A Messiah accompanied by a demon and an angel," Death commented mildly. "How very…Biblical. I don't suppose we could speak privately?"

"Yeah, I don't think so, buddy." Sam's attention snapped to Dean, and he was vaguely aware of Castiel doing the same.

"Dantalion," Castiel warned, gravelly.

Dean doubled down. "I go where he goes. He stays, I do."

Death shrugged, a dry hitching of his shoulders. "You can either leave, or I'll reap all three of you right now. It honestly makes no difference to me."

"Hey." Sam grabbed Dean's arm, keeping his voice firm to mask the anxiety buzzing in him. "It's okay, I'll be fine. Just wait out in the car, okay? Make sure that nobody messes with…her."

Dean glanced at Death, then back to Sam. There was a shadowy cast to his eyes, like he had in tinted contact lenses. He shifted a little closer to Sam.

"Fine," Dean grated out. "Exact same rules as Rufus's place, though. You need me, you yell, and I'll be here right away." He moved for the door, very reluctantly. "And try not to leave me alone with Clarence for too long. Can't promise I won't snap his halo."

Inanely, some part of Sam wondered if Castiel actually had a halo, and if Dean could see it. Sam yanked himself out of his musings. Not the time.

After Dean and Castiel left, there was only awkward silence between Sam and Death for a moment. Then Death gestured invitingly towards the chair across from him.

"Please, Sam. Take a seat."

Sam did, slowly. Maybe this had been a bad idea. But it was his only choice, their only chance.

"Would you like anything to eat before we begin?" Death asked him, spidery hands folded neatly in front of him.

"Uh, no. I'm good, thank you."

"Are you sure? I can vouch for the eggrolls here. They're quite good."

"I'm fine."

"Tea, then?" There was a pot and two cups on the table, a Chinese-style set.

"No, thanks."

Death shrugged again. "Suit yourself." He poured himself a cup, and Sam noticed the ring on his hand, the one he'd seen several days ago. A large, square white stone in a silver setting.

With steam rising from his teacup, Death returned his attention to Sam. "I suppose we'd better get down to brass tacks, then. Why are you here, Sam?"

Sam'd half-expected him to already know, just like he'd known his name. Maybe Death wasn't all-knowing, maybe he was just playing with him. "I'm going to close the Gates of Hell. I've got one Trial finished already, and…the next one is to get an innocent soul out of the Pit."

"Closing the Gates of Hell," Death repeated thoughtfully. "Not exactly a task that requires a Messiah."

"I'm…not really interested in the whole Messiah thing."

"Wise, I believe." Death nodded. "I never saw much difference between your kind and ordinary humans. Or monsters, for that matter." Sam's leg, aching dull for the entire conversation, suddenly cramped spectacularly. He forced himself not to rub it. "They all die in the end. I reap them all."

Death took a sip from his cup."Anyway. Freeing an innocent soul. You'll need to enter Hell, then, most likely through Purgatory in order to go unnoticed. And only things like me can pass easily through the Veil…so I assume you've come to ask me to bring you to Purgatory's entrance."

"I know it's a lot to ask," Sam said quietly.

"You're right. It definitely is. I'm a very busy being, Sam, as I'm sure you know." He picked up the teacup again. "But I think I'll help you anyway."

Sam lived his vision, straightening, eyes widening. He'd seen this but somehow, he must not have expected it to actually happen. "You…you will? That's…incredible, I – "

"Of course I will." Death cut him off. "I've never been terribly fond of Hell. Awful place to escort a soul to, and as far as spending my downtime there…well. It certainly isn't Bora Bora."

"No, I…wouldn't think," Sam agreed uncertainly.

"I don't have a lot of love for demons, either," Death continued. "They're rude, as yours demonstrated. They collect souls they aren't owed and gum up the gears of the universe, their interference generates mountains of paperwork…and." He fixed Sam with a piercing look. "They killed one of my reapers recently. To prevent the very thing you're trying to do, I suspect. Ajay. He certainly spent a lot of time moonlighting, which is rather frowned upon in our line of work, but nonetheless, he was one of mine."

Sam thought he heard a touch of grief in Death's voice. Or maybe he was reading in things that weren't there.

Death drained his cup. "I'll give you the location where Purgatory brushes up against your world, Sam. And I'll meet you there in a day's time. It's quite a hike, so teleportation is likely the best option. I'll expect you to be ready to enter when I arrive, of course."

"Of course," Sam echoed.

"You'll have to reach the entrance to Hell on your own, though. I won't accompany you, and I'm afraid your angel and demon can't, either."

"Why not?" Sam blurted.

"Purgatory belongs to neither Heaven nor Hell. It's neutral territory, houses the souls of monsters. Even an angel and a demon together entering it would be seen as an act of colonization by both sides." Death poured himself another cup of tea, and silently offered Sam one.

Sam declined again. Death's upper lip curled in something that was almost a sneer.

"I don't want an entirely new war to erupt. I'm busy enough as it is."

"They are…not gonna like that." Sam didn't need a vision to predict Dean and Castiel's reactions.

"How unfortunate. That isn't my concern, though." Death regarded Sam. "I would assume you have a soul in mind to rescue?"

Sam hesitated, and it hit him like a pistol butt to the back of the skull. He'd never even thought about it. What the hell was wrong with him? He'd been focused wholly on finding a way into Purgatory, hadn't even considered what came next, had waltzed into a meeting with one of the most powerful beings in the universe without making any preparations. Him, the guy who liked to have a concrete plan in place for a trip to the bathroom, as Dean had put it a few times. What counted as an innocent soul in Hell, anyway? Dean'd probably been one, but Sam couldn't imagine a whole lot of people got killed for trying to do the Trials. Crossroads deals? No, they'd signed a contract, the demons had to tell them the terms, and Sam wasn't even sure who else went to Hell, what kinds of souls got stolen on their way to Heaven, what if there weren't any innocent souls down there? What if Dean had been the last? What if this whole thing was a total waste of time and there wasn't any way he could pull this off and he just -

"Do you really expect me to do all the work for you?" Death appeared less than impressed.

"I'm sorry. I'll…I'll figure something out."

"I'm not so sure that you will, Sam." The tone was, as always, mild. The words were blunt. "You have several options. One is your best bet, though, and also the most useful soul to remove from Hell's possession, if that sort of thing motivates you at all, which I suspect it does."

"Could I get a name?" Sam asked tentatively, after a pulse of quiet.

"Kevin Tran," Death replied. "He was a Prophet, captured, tortured, killed, and kept by the demons. He is where most of their information on the latest Messiah has come from…and there's also a personal connection. Your Knight, I believe, is intimately acquainted with him."

Sam understood, the connections linking up in a rush. He couldn't even begin to identify the colorful, jagged burst of emotion inside him.

"Are you sure that you won't eat?" Death asked as he finished his second cup.

"Thank you, but. No." Sam hadn't eaten since noon, but it felt like he'd been swallowing bullets.

"I'd better be on my way, then. People don't stop dying." Death stood, gathering a nearby cane and bag, then reminded Sam, "One day. You had better not keep me waiting, you had better be prepared…" He glanced towards the restaurant's doors. "...and there had better not be any trouble from your companions."

"There won't be," Sam assured immediately. Death's expression didn't change.

And then he was gone, not so much as a whisper to mark his exit. The flame of the candle on their table died. Sam also saw that, in the tank behind them, about half the fish were floating belly-up.

Sam pushed himself up, legs shaky, one hurting. There was something on Death's seat. It was a neatly-folded map of Maine, a point in the Hundred-Mile Wilderness indicated in elegant handwriting.

He put it in his pocket. Then he went to go and find Dean and Castiel, to deliver his news.


	27. Chapter 27

_So it's six months since he died today. I didn't mark it on a calendar or anything. It's just something I know deep down. I opened my eyes this morning, I saw the box on the nightstand, and it's the first thing I thought of. He's usually the first thing I think of when I wake up, but this is different._

 _I don't think Dean knows. Why should he? He doesn't keep track of the date religiously or anything, and he didn't know the kid. I'm not sure that he ever even talked to him. He's heard me talk about him plenty. He knows how I feel. If I told him what today was, he'd be upset for me, or at least act like he was. I'm not going to tell him, though._

 _Vaughn was a monster and, relatively speaking, I didn't even have him all that long. But he trusted me to keep him safe, to take care of him. He was helpless. And it was my fault he died, totally my fault, I didn't keep up the defenses or check them like I should have and he paid the price for my mistakes. I let him down. I failed with him. I failed with a whole lot of them, actually, but he feels the worst because…I don't know. Because he acted like a human? Because he looked like a kid? Nothing really sounds good._

 _I really miss him._

 _\- Personal journal of Sam Winchester, c. 2008_

He knew it was wrong. He didn't even really have a good reason to do it, outside of not being in the mood for a huge fireworks show of a reaction.

But Sam didn't tell Dean or Castiel what Death had said. About them not being able to come with him when he went into Purgatory and then Hell. It wasn't even really a lie of omission. He just said yes when Dean asked him if Death had agreed to help him, like in his vision, and then he'd handed over the map.

He felt guilty as hell, didn't try to fix that.

Back at the motel, Dean told him again that Purgatory was the resting place for the soul of every monster who'd ever died, so he was going to have to be prepared for anything. Sam took a machete, his demon-killing knife, the spare angel blade, a silver knife, lamb's blood, two handguns loaded with a rainbow of monster-killing bullets, and on and on and on. It wasn't long before he was having a hard time finding places to fit it all on himself.

Guilt roiled hot and tight in his stomach when he noticed Dean covering himself in weapons, too, but it wasn't quite enough to tell him the truth.

After the conversation with Death, Dean didn't seem to be able to stop touching Sam. If he wasn't holding his hand, he had one on his shoulder, or his waist, or maybe their hips were pressed together, or their backs, or maybe he was straight-up holding him whenever there was a lull in their knife-stashing. He ruffled his hair, he kissed Sam's nape, his temple, his nose, his ear, his mouth. He stood right outside the door, leaning against it, whenever Sam had to go to the bathroom.

Castiel must've thought it was weird, eyeing the two of them with a frown. Sam couldn't say he minded it.

He called Ellen, Garth, and Charlie with a sanitized update. Bobby was on the telephone chain now, but he got the full story. Doing the Second Trial, going to Hell, springing an innocent soul. Just in case, Sam tried almost jokingly to tell them all goodbye and, without fail, they shut him down. He was going to do fine, they all said.

That was really the first time it hit home. That Sam could very well die doing this. In fact, without a Knight of Hell and angel of the Lord backing him up, he had the same chance as a snowball where he was going.

It wasn't useful to think about it. He had too much work to do, and obsessing over all the ways he could die definitely wouldn't help him complete the Trial.

He wanted to get out to the Hundred-Mile Wilderness immediately. They had coordinates, Castiel could get them there. Dean vetoed that idea in favor of having Sam sleep. They had a whole day and he didn't want him resting out in the Maine woods in the middle of winter. The reminder that they were going north again, to the forest, made Sam's left calf twinge. He agreed, reluctantly, but he didn't think he could sleep, even with how oddly tired he was feeling.

Castiel announced he could fix that and touched two fingers to Sam's forehead. The next thing Sam knew, he was waking up well-rested the morning after, Dean wrapped protectively around him on the bed and deep in a massive argument with Castiel. But at least Sam'd slept, he could grudgingly agree to that.

Dean made Sam demonstrate a few skills for him after he got up. He seemed satisfied, but definitely not enthusiastic.

Around noon, they checked out of the motel, put the Impala in a garage and paid for a week of parking, and went to Maine. Sam only had his backpack and the weapons on him and, while that was all he had most of the time, he felt strangely naked and vulnerable anyway.

Maybe it was the forest. Thick, pine-heavy, deciduous trees mixed in…

It reminded him of Vermont. He was glad for the cold and the snow, wasn't sure what he would've done if they'd tried to do this in the fall.

Dean built a fire as soon as he noticed Sam's nose getting red, had him sit down on a nearby fallen tree. They didn't know exactly when Death was going to show up.

Mostly to kill some time, Sam asked if Dean or Castiel could feel anything, considering that this was the entrance to Purgatory. They could, apparently. Dean only if he really concentrated, Castiel a lot more easily. Castiel also felt like he could open it if he absolutely had to, according to him. Not that he was going to, he was quick to add, mouth set in a thin, disapproving line.

Time passed. Castiel, looking so unhappy he might as well have been wearing a sandwich board announcing his feelings, sort of patrolled but kept close. Dean was quietly tense. He stood with his back to Sam, warmth bleeding through their clothes, trying to stay busy. Eventually, after about an hour, he sat down next to Sam.

"How're you doing?" Dean asked him. "Y'know, with…this." He gestured to the forest while looking at his leg.

"I'm okay, actually." Sam was cramping just a little, but could ignore it easily. Something deep in his chest actually hurt more.

"Well. I'm not. Okay, I mean."

Dean sounded like he was digging the words out, admitting it. Sam shifted on the log, knees touching Dean's. He took his hand, folding it in his own much-larger one. His fingers were cold. Dean's were as lukewarm as they always were.

Dean was staring at the fire. His eyes were like marbles. Black glass, barest hint of sclera white around the edges. The boundary boiled.

"Just about the worst thing I can imagine is you in Hell." Dean's voice ground against itself, almost subvocal. "'Specially a part where the souls are kept. The ones that haven't broken yet, burned off into black smoke. I know you gotta do it yourself or it doesn't work, get somebody out. Otherwise, I'd have you wait out here. Go into Purgatory or at least Hell all by myself."

His free hand was balled up on his thigh, bone and tendon showing through yellow-white under the taut skin. Sam swallowed, throat tight.

"And I _get_ we're partners and you're a hunter and your own person and everything, so don't give me any shit about that. But as it is, you're gonna have to stay as close to me as you possibly can, okay? You can't leave my sight. And you gotta let me deal with any demons we come across. Me or Castiel, 'cause he's got the juice to kill 'em with one touch."

Sam squeezed his eyes tightly shut, squirming on the log as he listened to Dean drag out his worst memories. "I…know Hell. I know I said I didn't, but I do. I know it enough, at least. Sections like this especially. So. You stay close, Sammy."

"Yeah." Sam took a deep breath, spoke quietly. "About that."

Dean was incredulous, after Sam laid out Death's rules. Then he was mad. Insanely, uncontrollably, end-of-days mad, which was more or less what Sam had expected.

"Why in the _hell_ didn't you tell me any of this earlier?!" he demanded, getting up, practically jerking himself away from Sam, glaring down at him with full-black eyes. "Like, right away, Sam. Right when you came outta the goddamn restaurant. Did you not think that this was relevant?! Something that I might wanna know about?"

The fire suddenly blazed high and blood-colored at Dean's back, flames jagged and malformed. Sam got up, hands held out in front of him as Castiel hurried over to the two of them.

"Dean, calm down," Sam tried. Dean bared his teeth.

"Oh, 'calm down'? Are you fucking kidding me right now, Sam?"

"What's going on?" Castiel demanded.

"Put those things away, nobody wants to see 'em," Dean snapped, and Sam could only assume Castiel's wings were spread. "And you wanna know what's going on? Apparently, it slipped Sam's mind that Death told him neither of us can come with him into Purgatory."

"He said that?" Castiel looked at Sam and, when he didn't contradict Dean, slowly shook his head. "Then I'm sorry, Sam, but you won't be completing the Second Trial, and I do fully mean it this time. I won't be changing my mind. I simply can't allow you to go somewhere I can't accompany you…especially not places as dangerous as Purgatory and Hell."

The word "allow" stung like nettle spines under Sam's skin, and he felt heat rising in him despite the cold. He looked at Dean, and he was more than half-expecting him to be snarling at Castiel now. Instead, he found him nodding along.

"Exactly how I feel. Thank you." After a second, as the fire started to sink back down, Dean looked at Sam. "You know what, fuck this, I'm going with you anyway. What the hell's Death gonna do to stop me?"

"Would you like a list?" Castiel asked even as Sam, taking a step forward, blurted, "Dean, you can't."

Dean shook his head and looked away, furious.

"Nobody's going to Hell if we can't all go," he stated, flatter and heavier than a grave marker. "Or if I can't go with you." He looked at Sam.

"But this is…this is the only way to complete the Trials," Sam started. His leg cramped harder. "We need to follow Death's rules 'cause he's the only one who can get me into Purgatory, Purgatory's the only way I'm getting to Hell, and I can't close the Gates without going there and getting somebody out."

"Guess you're not closing the Gates of Hell, then!" The fire started rising again, and there was thunder cracked sharp in the distance as Dean threw his hands up. "Look, Sam, we can ratchet up your Jesus superpowers and you can close the Gates by force, we can go around killing all the other demons one by one, we can just fuck off and forget all about this, which is what I wanna do. What I've wanted to do from the start. But you're notgoing to Hell on your own."

And Sam was suddenly sixteen again. Arguing with his dad about college, about library cards, about getting a dog. He was choking on words that he knew wouldn't make a difference even if he got them all out, but he had to try anyway, what other choice did he have? "I – "

"Hell isn't a place." Dean cut him instantly off. "It's a thing, it's a body. It's alive, it pulses and bleeds and breathes, it gets bigger with every demon we churn out, so it's built on suffering and evil. It _feeds_ on it. It gets inside your head and starts eating you away from the inside before anybody even makes a cut on you."

There was lightning in the sky now, dark clouds, and the fire was twisting red right behind Dean. Its roar was so loud he was having to yell over it. Castiel was stiff and ready right next to Sam, whose heart was hammering and throat was tight. He'd never seen anything like this happen before. He had no idea what to do.

"It's the – the homeland of demons, of things like me. It's where we come from. Where we can be ourselves, and where you can see our true faces, and where we can go buckwild all over each other and human souls and Hell itself. And I can't send you there, Sam. I can't send you to the place that did this to me." Dean gestured to himself, his eyes, mostly, his face. "Not alone. Not without anybody to pull you out. 'Cause you'll never come back, and if you do, you won't be the same, and I. Can't handle losing that big a part of me. Not again. There…there ain't that much left to begin with, and what I've still got, I've poured into you."

Sam's skin prickled, hair rising all over his body in a useless fear response from ten thousand years ago. Adrenaline sliced through his veins. He was caught painfully halfway between putting his arms around Dean, who looked feral and monstrous with knifing crimson flames behind him and lightning sparking in his black eyes, and bolting in the other direction. He couldn't think of anything to say in response to what Dean just had. He didn't think there was anything he could say.

Castiel looked rattled, too.

The fire suddenly went out with a _fwumph_ , smoke billowing immediately into the sky. The stormclouds didn't clear out, but the lightning stopped flickering between them like some mutated skeleton, and a minute passed with no thunder. Dean's shoulders slumped. His eyes lightened, the faint smoke that remained drifting behind the corneas.

He was tired. His movements, as he built a new fire, were slow, almost arthritic. Sam made a split-second decision and moved to help him, scraping up dry pine needles for kindling. Dean looked at him, then leaned towards him, so their shoulders were pressed together. Sam felt a brief shock, almost like static cling, but then it was just Dean. His boyfriend, his partner. It felt good.

"You're entirely right," Castiel managed to agree, still planted where Sam had left him. "Hell is far too dangerous for Sam to enter alone, especially as a Messiah whose powers are only just beginning to bud. It would be like walking into the lion's den."

Dean didn't respond to that, piling sticks and broken branches, summoning them to his hand from feet away. When he did speak, his voice was a mumble.

"Finding an innocent soul in Hell'd be near-impossible, anyway. Like looking for a needle in a haystack. Made of other needles, and barbed wire, and fish hooks, razors, butcher knives…and also the needle you're looking for might not even exist."

"Actually." Sam swallowed. He didn't want to bring back that thing made of fire and electricity and black smoke, and he knew that that was Dean, and hated that he was afraid of it. He had to get this out, though. "Actually, Death…gave me a name. A soul that's not supposed to be there, in Hell, one that i-it'd really be in everybody's best interests to get out. Sounds like, at least." He made himself look at Dean. "Kevin Tran."

It seemed to take a second, for the name to make its way through the dark, gory battlefield mess that was Dean's memory of his time as a human. Sam saw the second that it clicked, though, the wound that suddenly opened up in Dean, and Dean moved back. Their shoulders weren't touching anymore.

"No."

"Death said he was there. They took him because he was a Prophet, and they've been using him ever since. Remember what Bobby said, about Hell knowing the next Messiah was going to show up in this decade? I'd assume he's how they found that out." Sam's hands were stiff with cold, coated by forest soil and pine pitch, dirty and useless. He felt more or less the same way inside when he added, "The way you said Hell was. That place you just…described to me. Can you leave him there?"

Dean's jaw clenched as he stared at Sam, a pile of sticks and a patch of snow on the ground between them, smoke still rising lazily nearby. Sam stared back, and he wanted to apologize, wanted to touch Dean, pull him into a hug. He didn't. Then suddenly Castiel was there, standing over the two them, with a loud flap of wings and a bitter gust.

"A Prophet?" Castiel demanded. "There's a Prophet in Hell?"

"Death said there was, and. He'd probably know."

Castiel rocked back on the heels of his dress shoes, staring at nothing. At the same time, Dean straightened up, leaving the wood half-gathered, and walked into the trees. He stopped maybe twenty feet away, half- hidden by a screen of living needles and bare branches, and just stood, hands on the back of his head. He looked as agonizingly taut as he had the first few days after Castiel had showed up. Sam thought of the beach house, and something churned in his stomach, flowers of pain opening wide in his chest and his left leg.

"I don't like this," Castiel began with difficulty. Sam was only sort of listening to him. "Not at all, not in the slightest, and my superiors are going to be…apoplectic. But a Prophet cannot be left in the hands of demons, and I still can't get in real contact with Heaven, and seeing as it appears that neither I nor Dantalion can – "

"Christ, would you can it?" Dean snapped over his shoulder, voice as tight as the rest of him. "Son of a bitch."

A few seconds passed. Sam wavered for a couple seconds, then crunched his way over to Dean. He'd gotten within a few feet of him when Dean warned, "Swear to god, Sam, you touch me, I'll crush your ribs."

Sam stopped. His breath steamed, and he struggled. Finally, he said, "I'm sorry."

Dean didn't look at him.

"I know why…this is hard for you. I get it."

"Do you?" Dean asked, harsh.

"I-I do. As much as I can, at least. And trust me, if there were any other way to do this, I wouldn't go. Not without you, not at all. But there's not. This is it. I hate it, but…"

"Lemme ask you something, Sam." Dean turned to face him. "All these hunters who hate your guts, all these civvies you've never even met. The people who're actually affected by the whole demon thing. Why d'you care so much more about them than you do me?"

That hit like a sucker punch, knocked the air clean out of Sam's lungs. It took him so goddamn long to respond and he knew, with every second he stood there and just blinked at Dean, he was making things worse.

"I don't. I never have, I couldn't. But it's personal now, closing the Gates, because they're looking for – "

"So we hide you," Dean interrupted. "Couldn't be that hard, 'specially 'cause, I mean, you heard Clarence, you're nowhere near maxed out. We leave, we hide, you never halfway kill yourself for anybody who doesn't deserve it ever again."

Sam swallowed, then glanced behind him. Castiel was still back over by the dead fire, apparently giving them some privacy but also watching like a blue-eyed hawk. He was obviously on board with springing Kevin.

How had Sam felt, when Death told him Dean's Prophet was in Hell and that was the soul he should set his sights on? A lot of things, honestly, but digging back through them, one loomed larger and larger. Sam looked at Dean again.

"What about…somebody who does deserve it?" he started, slowly.

"Who?"

"You, Dean. Right here, right now, this specifically…" Sam pointed at the ground with both hands. "…I don't even care about closing the Gates. Or, well, I do, but it's honestly at the back of my mind. What I wanna do is get somebody you cared about when you were human out of Hell. For you."

"Doesn't even matter anymore," Dean muttered, scrubbing his hands back through his hair. "Two thousand years ago, almost. I don't care."

"You don't mean that." Sam shook his head. "Back at my cabin, you told me I reminded you of him. Kevin. A lot. And you said you loved him. I know you, you're already beating yourself up for him being in the Pit, and if he stays there, it's gonna keep eating at you. I don't want that to happen. You don't deserve it. And he doesn't deserve to be there."

Dean's eyes were still clear. Sam continued.

"I can do this, Dean. I can go into Hell and I can come back out, with him. I grew up hunting, I've spent the last year getting back in the game with the best teacher I could ask for, and I've been resting up for a month now. I…I trust myself on this, I really do. I need you to trust me to do this for you."

When Dean didn't say anything, Sam tentatively asked, "Can I…can I touch you now?"

"I guess." Dean motioned him in with a sigh. "C'mere."

Sam stepped forward and hugged him, tight, and relaxed when Dean hugged him back. The amulet pressed tight and thorny between their chests. The sulfur-leather-gun oil smell of Dean was a relief, closing out the piney reek of the forest around them.

"Between you and Feathers, looks like I really don't have a choice here," Dean muttered. Sam pulled back some.

"That's not true. I…that's really not what I'm trying to say here…listen. If you really, really don't want me to do this, if you can't handle it…" _If you can live with Kevin in Hell for eternity_. Sam bit that one back, hard. "I won't do it. I'll walk away. Because you are worth more to me than anybody else."

Dean's weary sigh ruffled Sam's hair.

"Maybe that's true," he mumbled, "but you and me both know that if I cut you off here, you're gonna spend the rest of your life hating me, deep down. Even if you don't want to. You won't be able to hide it, and I can't live like that." He gave Sam a bone-cracking squeeze before he let him go. "You're good. You're a hell of a lot better than you were six months ago, at least, and I just really fuckin' hope that'll be enough."

They went back to Castiel. Sam sat down on the log, Dean finished up with the fire. Groping for ways to lighten the mood, Sam commented, "I'm looking forward to meeting one of your exes, at least."

Dean sat back after lighting the fire with a snap of his fingers, looking up to where the clouds were dissolving. After a minute, he shrugged.

"Ex. Yeah, I guess he is. I mean, we never broke up for real or anything." He got up, sat next to Sam. There wasn't so much as a whisper of space between them. "I just died."

He turned to look at Sam, studying his face and his feelings, then, with the ghost of a smirk, asked, "You sure you still wanna get him outta Hell?"

"Of course I do. Don't be…that doesn't change anything."

From then 'til Death showed up, Dean was glued to Sam, even closer than he'd been yesterday and this morning. It was like he was trying to complete a ritual of his own. If he just stayed in contact, Sam wouldn't have to leave.

Death came for them late that afternoon, around the same time he'd met Sam in the restaurant yesterday. First Castiel and Dean tensed, both moving in protectively closer to Sam (not that Dean could get all that much closer), and then Death strolled out of the forest, cane in hand. He nodded appreciatively when he saw Sam.

"You arrived on time," he noted. "What a refreshing surprise. Seeing as you arrived late to our last appointment…and missed so very, very many others. Mostly thanks to your Knight." He nodded to Dean then, before Sam could puzzle that out, changed the subject. "Speaking of, I assume you've spoken to your disciples and informed them that they won't be - ?"

"Yeah, 'bout that." Dean stood, hand planted firmly on one of Sam's shoulders. "I got a problem with that rule of yours, Skinny."

"Dantalion," Castiel hissed, even as Sam stood up and grabbed onto the back of Dean's neck. Dean wasn't budging, though.

"Oh, you do, do you?" Death cocked his head and gave Dean a mildly curious look. "About not being allowed into Purgatory to defend the quasi-human you've imprinted on, I expect. Well, by all means, I'll certainly hear you out. Before you start, though, keep in mind that I've escorted nearly all your predecessors, with very few exceptions, out to their final resting places in the Empty. Raum, Baal, Moloch, Amon, all the rest, both the original bearers of those names and their inheritors. I took the original Dantalion when the angel Qaphsiel slew him, and he was a great deal more powerful then than you are now." Death regarded Dean with something that almost looked like amusement. "For me, Dean, the difference between a Knight, especially one like you, and an ordinary demon…or a human, for that matter…is a lot like the difference between a mosquito and a gnat."

Dean's eyes were black when Sam looked. He didn't say anything.

"Have you changed your mind?" Death asked. "You're not going to challenge me on my decision, then? How unfortunate. I was almost looking forward to the debate."

Sam moved his hand to Dean's shoulder, squeezed. He wasn't breathing, and Sam's own breaths were loud and ragged in his ears.

"I assume you're ready then, Sam." Death beckoned. "Come with me."

Sam let go of Dean and grabbed his backpack. He hurried to catch up with Death, Dean and Castiel following very, very closely. Sam heard the new fire die as Dean passed it.

"This is Purgatory's natural exit, intended to release any human souls that…happened to get lost," Death explained, leading Sam through the trees as the light began to fade. The northern sunset was muted, watercolors splashed across the sky. "No manufactured doors here. I have the juice, you might say, to open it all on my own. And when the time comes, you'll be able to exit through it with no help. It's a one-way portal, you see." Death looked at Sam, sidelong. "I'll remain here, however, to ensure that nothing…unsavory attempts to follow you out. The portal technically doesn't open unless a human is nearby, but as I'm sure you know, there are ways around every hard and fast rule."

Death stopped at what looked like a random place in the trees, nodded to himself, and raised his cane. Before he could do anything, though, Dean said, "Wait…wait."

Sam practically whipped around in order to glare at him. How in the hell hadn't he learned his lesson by now? But Dean wasn't even looking at Death. He grabbed Sam's hands, squeezing hard. Calluses on his palms grated against the scars on Sam's knuckles, and it almost hurt, but it felt good, too. Secure. Like Sam was being anchored.

"Purgatory's full of monsters," Dean started, low, serious, talking fast. "You know that already, but you can't stop moving for even a second, and you gotta kill as many as you possibly can 'cause you sure as hell ain't gonna outrun 'em, not with you being human and all. They'll die just like they do out here. And then they'll come back. But you got plenty of time before that happens."

He let go of one of Sam's hands, dug a tightly-folded piece of paper out of his pocket to pass over. "That's the incantation you're gonna need to smuggle a soul out. Didn't give it to you before 'cause, y'know…I thought I was going with you." Dean's mouth quirked a little, bitter. "Both you and…him are gonna need to cut your arms and hold hands while you say that."

Sam blinked, confused, but he didn't have time to ask about the mechanics of the spell.

"Listen to me. You got twenty-four hours, okay?" Dean took Sam's hand again. "After that, I'm coming to get you, and I'm killing anybody, Prince, Lord, Lucifer him-fucking-self, who gets in my way."

"Your loyalty's certainly admirable, Dean," Death commented, "but I'm afraid I don't wait for anybody. No matter how badly they want me to."

Sam darted in, Dean met him halfway, crushing their mouths together in a desperate kiss even as they squeezed each other's hands. Sam almost wanted bruises on his fingers. Maybe it'd been a bad thing, for Dean to be attached for his hip for the last day, because pulling back from him felt like ripping a limb free. Dean stepped back to stand next to Castiel, stricken, eyes black again, and at the last second, Sam slipped the weight of his backpack off his shoulder and tossed it to him.

"Here." He swallowed. "Probably a bad idea to bring that with me. Got all the weapons I need, anyway."

Sam turned to look at Death. He didn't say anything about how long they'd taken, just raised his cane again, and then it was a scythe, in a swirl of dust. Long black handle, curving silver sickle-blade. He brought it down in a neat stroke, and it was like he cut an incision into the world itself. A wound opened, rippling around the edges, strange light filtering through, and then he offered a hand to Sam, thin and dry as the tree branches surrounding them. Sam took it, hesitantly. And Death brought him forward into Purgatory.

The opening closed behind them as soon as they were through, in a swirl of thrashing cobalt light. It felt like Sam's stomach did more or less the same thing.

"Don't worry, it's there," Death assured. "It'll appear again once you're ready to leave. It reacts to your presence, as a human."

"Okay." Relaxing by a fraction, Sam looked around. It was the middle of the day here, everything bathed in a harsh, muted light that washed out every color. He couldn't see a sun or the sky. Only trees, way off into the distance, with a dim white-gray glow above. It wasn't winter here, either, no snow on the ground, but it was cold, like early spring or late fall.

It felt…different. Primordial, pure. How old was this place? It wouldn't have surprised Sam to hear it'd been around longer than Earth.

"Well. Enjoy." Death turned to leave, and Sam's eyes snapped to him.

"W-wait. The entrance to Hell…where is it?"

Death smiled at him. "I'm afraid I don't know for sure. But it has to be out there somewhere. And you'd better hurry, half a dozen things have caught your scent already."

Death sliced a hole once again with his scythe, light and darkness writhing around the opening, a cut that shouldn't exist and wanted nothing more than to close itself. He threw Sam one last smile. Then he stepped through, the portal vanished, and Sam was entirely alone.

* * *

The monsters found him quickly.

He'd barely scrambled down off the ridge that held the way out before what he thought was a werewolf rushed him. He didn't really get a good look at it, acting on instinct to whip out a gun and fire three silver bullets into its chest. The grouping was good, he thought distantly to himself when it went down. All near or in the heart. Dean would be proud of him.

The rest of the pack caught up soon, howling for blood, fangs long, eyes bright, coarse hair along their cheekbones and jaws. Sam got his back to a tree, pulled a machete free of his coat and swiped them back, then shot. They went down one right after the other, leaving him sucking wind and awash in adrenaline.

He felt…weirdly good, though. At least a little more confident. His leg had even stopped hurting.

That was three down. Sam stepped gingerly over the corpses. Where were the other three Death promised? Glancing around, Sam didn't see them, but realized he needed to keep moving. Just like Dean advised.

Where was he even going, though? Where was Hell? What did the entrance look like? Anxiety seeped up like groundwater but Sam knew he couldn't let it flood him. He had to move. Keep an eye out. Get back to the portal within twenty-four hours. The faster he ran, the less chance there was of panic locking up his legs, so he picked a direction and took off.

The regular running paid off, along with all the hiking he'd done out at Bobby's. Air flying in and out of his lungs, sweat cropping up under his jeans and jacket, he didn't even try to be quiet. There was just no way that he could, what with all the leaf litter and the twenty pounds of metal he was carrying in weapons.

A lone vampire came out of nowhere, smashed him into a tree so hard his left arm went numb from shoulder to fingertips. Sam gasped, and it snarled at him, shark fangs bared and a ring of shattered veins webbed around its irises. He didn't even think when it lunged for his throat, just brought up a leg and kicked it hard in the chest. It stumbled back, feet slipping on the twigs and leaves, and he brought out the machete again. The head came off in one swing, and then he was gone, not wanting to deal with the rest of the nest if they were nearby.

Sam found a ghoul maybe half an hour later, feeding on a corpse so badly decayed he had no idea what it was. It looked up him, startled, when he came into view, then ran off, heading for deeper trees. He didn't follow it.

There was something else, not too long after that. He came around a tree and found it busily harvesting a crop of oyster mushrooms, a sack dangling from one shoulder. They startled each other, Sam skidding to a halt and the monster jumping back. Sam had no idea what it was, hadn't ever seen something like it before, vaguely human but with a head like a housefly, spiny, clawed hands, and stunted gossamer wings rising from its back. His mind jumped to the Cronenberg movie, seen on late-night television for the first time when he was eight.

It charged him after what seemed to be a second of deliberation. Sam had no idea how to kill it, almost turned around and bolted, but there wasn't any way he could've outrun it. A knife between the ribs, thankfully, did the trick. Mushrooms spilled out of its bag when it fell, convulsing, and he left it quickly behind.

He'd have to try and figure out what that was when he got back, Sam found himself thinking. There had to be hundreds of monsters here nobody had ever catalogued, if not thousands. Tens of thousands. Things that kept to themselves, things had had gone extinct…how great would it be to spend some time here, tracking them down and studying them?

Sam caught himself before too much longer. Was he seriously thinking about taking a vacation in Purgatory? Good thing Dean wasn't here, he'd have enough nerd material to last him the rest of his life.

There were more monsters. He left a sparse trail of bodies, headless, bullet-riddled, bleeding out, in his wake. He got to a quieter area eventually, where it didn't seem like anything was hanging out, moving along the bank of a placid, narrow pond. He'd slowed down to catch his breath, and there was nothing but the rasping of that and the languid lap of water on mud.

"Sam?"

It was incredulous, and he was already tensing before he spun around. He recognized the woman standing maybe thirty feet away from him instantly, even from this distance. Blonde, attractive. The last time he'd seen her, he'd been kneeling next to her cot in his cabin, twisting the silver knife he'd just stuck into her emaciated body.

"Marlene," Sam grated, swallowing.

"I almost didn't recognize you, without all that stupid fucking hair. Your scent pulled me out here." She took a few steps towards him, movements fluid, silky. "You're human, aren't you? You know what, I don't even care how that's possible, it's been so long since I had human blood. And it seems so right for it to come from you." Her fangs dropped, pupils thinning and eyes sharpening to an electric blue, and her tongue, forked, slithered out. "Don't suppose it'd be too much to ask you to stay still while I pay you back for killing me."

"I didn't have a choice." Sam grabbed for the silver knife inside his jacket. "You were sick, I didn't know what else to - "

"Of course I was sick!" she snapped. "The hunters that dumped me on you killed my partner, and then you fed me pig's blood. _Pig_."

"Stay back," Sam warned as she kept moving forward. He backed up, trying to maintain the space between them. The heels of his boots sank into firm mud. "I-I don't…I don't wanna kill you again."

"I doubt you can, Sam." Marlene sneered. "I'm not starving to death this time, or heartsick. And I'm not alone anymore, either."

Something burst out of the water behind Sam. He couldn't even turn before it slammed into his back and knocked him hard to the forest floor. His knife spun free of his hand, bouncing to land half-buried under the litter more than a yard away, and the impact crushed the air out of him. His face smacked the ground hard enough for twigs to bury themselves in the side of it.

The thing on top of him went to bite, where his shoulder met his neck. Sam felt it coming and twitched as best he could, so snake fangs met through his Carhartt and flannel. He twisted his head, saw ice-chip blue eyes with slivered pupils and dark hair. Marlene's partner. If she got venom into him, he was as good as dead.

There was a sudden explosion in his brain, pulsing black-red, ricocheting off the walls of his skull. His head bounced and he cried out. It took him a second to realize Marlene was there, she'd kicked him in the temple, and even then, it was a dim half-awareness.

Sam'd gone limp. Someone grabbed as big a handful of his hair as they could get and pulled his head up. His vision wavered, and he blinked hard, forcing three drifting Marlenes to coalesce into one.

"We're gonna drain you, drop by drop, outta the tips of your fingers and toes." She smiled around her fangs, excited. "Maybe we'll sell your other parts off to other monsters. All we need's the blood. Everyone'll be dying to get a piece of any human here, let alone a hunter. Ooh, just imagine what we could get. Especially from the ones you put here, Sam. How many d'you sup - ?"

Sam barely heard the crunch of footsteps. Marlene definitely didn't. The wet, gristly sound of a knife going into her back must've caught her attention, though, along with the sickening twist of it. Her eyes went wide, then dulled back down to a human color, and she fell over sideways, hand slipping out of Sam's hair. Her body immediately began crumbling to ash.

The vetala still on top of Sam made a shatteringly loud noise right next to his ear, half snarl, half wail. He could feel her tensing to move, but she never got the chance. The knife entered her, and blood pattered onto Sam's jacket. Then the disintegrating corpse was hauled off him, weight vanishing.

He tried to push himself up, but apparently not fast enough for his savior. Someone grabbed the bloody back of his jacket and hauled him roughly to his knees. And then he was looking at a woman, slim, pale. Freckles covered her, he could even see them through her bright red hair, shorn so close to her skull it was almost a buzzcut. Sam's mouth opened, stomach in freefall, heart stuttering in recognition, because she looked just like –

"Sam!"

Sam turned as a blur of faded denim and coppery hair left the trees. Knees hit the forest floor, skidded, arms were flung around him and a chest hit his. It took no time at all for Sam to hug back. For him to hold Vaughn as tightly as he felt like he could.

All monsters went to Purgatory when they died. But he'd never even considered this. Why not? Why hadn't he been looking this entire time? Sam felt himself grimacing at his own stupidity, his own self-absorption, the same things that had gotten Vaughn killed in the first place. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, and they burned and stung behind the clenched lids.

It lasted a long time, Vaughn latched onto Sam and Sam squeezing him like he was a life preserver in the middle of the open ocean. Vaughn resting his head on Sam's collarbone and Sam trying hard not to cry. Then Vaughn pulled back just a little and said, uncertainly, "You…you still smell human." Sam opened his eyes, tears forced back, to find Vaughn staring up at him. "What are you?"

"Human." It came out rough and thick. Sam cleared his throat. "I'm not…nothing turned me. I didn't die. I came here to do something important."

Awe lit up Vaughn's face, and Sam knew what it was going to say before he even opened his mouth. It was like somebody had grabbed a handful of his guts and twisted ruthlessly. "Did you. Are you here to get me?"

The woman who'd killed the vetala spoke before Sam could. She was crouched nearby, bloody knife clutched tightly, but it was chipped obsidian tied to a jawbone handle, not silver. At least a dozen similar weapons that Sam could see hung all over her body. Her tone was flat and harsh.

"Of course he's not. If he was, he would've come right after you died, if he knew how to do it. Not almost a year later."

She glared at Sam, eyes almost as blue as the vetala's had been, and Sam, arms still around Vaughn, swallowed again.

"Mom," Vaughn admonished.

She snorted, sounding disgusted, and looked away, shaking her head. Sam slowly got to his feet, keeping his eyes on her. Vaughn came with him, clinging to him, and when Sam looked down at him, he buried his face in his shirt. He looked the same as he had when he'd died. Around fifteen. His hair was a lot shorter, though, and his clothes were different. Much sturdier, too big for him. He was dirty, maybe intentionally, clothes streaked with earth like camouflage. Two obsidian knives hung off his belt.

Sam put his hands on his shoulders and guided him back, gently. Vaughn looked reluctantly up at him. He wasn't mad, he didn't even seem disappointed, and that hurt almost as bad as the question had.

"I'm sorry," Sam began, quietly. "I am so, so sorry. There's no excuse for what happened to you, and there's no excuse for me not coming after you, once I knew where you'd gone. I was…I got lazy. I didn't do what I should've to protect you. You were my responsibility, and I failed you. I failed you twice. And I'm never gonna be able to make up for any of that. I – "

"Sam." Vaughn said his name again, cutting him quietly off. Then he hugged him again, tight around his middle. Knife handles and gun butts pressed near-bruises into Sam's flesh, and he let it happen. "It's okay."

"Is it, though? Really?" The woman was glaring again when Sam looked at her.

"No, no. It's actually…it's almost a good thing, when you really think about it," Vaughn assured, and Sam glanced down at him in disbelief. "I met my mom! And I learned how to hunt and feed and fight, like I'm supposed to. I'm a real wraith now." He smiled, wide, then it dimmed some. "But I miss comics, I gotta say."

Sam smiled back, weakly. He should've brought some.

"What are you doing here?" Vaughn's mother demanded. "We know you didn't come for him. And nobody decides to spend Spring Break in Purgatory."

Sam coughed. "Uh…no. Yeah. Of course not…I'm actually, uh, trying to close off Hell, and there are these Trials I gotta do for that – "

"Oh, wow, seriously?" Vaughn interrupted enthusiastically. "That is so cool! What happened, did you come across it in a book or something? What made you decide to…" He trailed off, glancing at his mother. "Sorry. You keep going."

"There's an entrance to Hell here, somewhere. I'm trying to find it."

"Ooh!" Vaughn let go of Sam. "Oh, man. Mom. Hey, d'you reme – "

"We don't know that's what that was," Vaughn's mother said tensely.

"What…what was?" Sam asked.

"We found – " Vaughn's mom started, but Vaughn cut her off.

"Okay, so, we haven't been here all that long," he started, excited. "We kind of move all over. 'Cause Purgatory is _so_ big, Sam, and there's so much stuff here. Like, there are places where it's always night? And of course there's all the other monsters, and most of them, we gotta stay away from them. Or kill them. Some of them, we can feed on them, but anyway, there's some out there that have villages, 'cause they're more organized or something, I guess. I think it'd be so cool to live in one of those, but a lot don't really like wraiths all that much." He smiled before adding, "This place would be like a dream come true for you, Sam. There's just so much, you could do a ton of research, and you could ask everybody all the creepy questions you wanted. I mean, everybody who didn't wanna eat you soon as they saw you, at least." His mother cleared her throat. "Anyway, we found this thing not too far away from here. It's a hole, and it sucks the air into it, but you can still smell things from it. There's people in there, humans, I mean, and…pain. Agony, really. Blood and suffering. I don't…know what that'd be other than Hell."

"Can you show me where it is?" The excitement and relief felt like ice cracking in Sam's chest.

"Of cour – " Vaughn started, but his mother got to his feet and grabbed his arm.

"We've done too much already," she muttered to him, voice low. "He's human. He's a great, big, shining beacon for everything within a hundred miles of here. Further if the wind starts blowing. The longer he's here, the more things he's going to attract, and I can't kill all of them."

"Bu - "

"We need to get moving again." She tugged at Vaughn. "Look at all that water. Great naga territory…venomous, even. Want naga for dinner?"

"No, I wanna show Sam where that hole is." Vaughn pulled his arm free of his mother's grip and stared up at her. She was only a couple inches taller than him. "C'mon. Please? He can't find it on his own, it's outta the way and he can't smell it. It's not that far, it won't take long at all."

His mom didn't look convinced. Sam awkwardly shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"Please?" Vaughn wheedled. "Mom…"

"Fine." She relented with a sigh, and then she turned to Sam, eyes steely. "But you keep up, and you pull your own weight if we run into anything else. You don't do that, we're gone."

"Okay." Sam nodded.

"Great." Vaughn's mother spun on her heel and started off, cleaning her obsidian blade in the crook of one elbow as she walked at a fast clip. Vaughn hurried after her, glancing frequently back at Sam.

"No, Mom, you gotta slow down, he – " He stopped when Sam caught up to them, longer strides making it easy, and stared. "But…your…your leg's okay?"

"Uh. Yeah." Sam laughed a little, bleakly. "That's…a long story."


	28. Chapter 28

_E21W_

 _Species: Wraith_

 _Gender: Female_

 _Age: Unknown, suspected over a hundred (100) years, possibly older_

 _Threats: Increased strength, speed, shapeshifting abilities, spikes in both wrists, venom which causes dangerously high dopamine levels (transferred through touch)_

 _Caution level: High_

 _Use: Breeding_

 _Notes: Induced parthenogenesis on 8/10/99. All remaining eggs not miscarried nearing full internal gestation when death occurred on 6/1/00. Massively attached to unborn offspring, able to speak despite injuries, demanded eggs be incubated in brain of corpse (standard wraith life cycle), suggested her own. Suggestion followed in the case of one (1) egg, incubation successful, see V22W for details. Given intensity of emotional reaction, E21W may have been able to escape or cause significant damage upon delivery of larva, had death not occurred seven months prior._

 _Research notes of shapeshifter collector, known informally as the Collector/the Doctor/etc., c. 2000_

* * *

"So. The demon that Gordon brought's helping you do this ritual, that's gonna seal off Hell forever, and he knows about it 'cause he tried to do it back when he was human."

"That's right."

"And you're also…dating him," Vaughn went on, very deliberately. "Or in a relationship with him, I guess. The, um, Knight of Hell."

"Yep. Dean. Going on…" Sam did a quick check of his mental calendar. "…nine months now."

"I…guess you do kinda smell like sulfur." Vaughn eyed him, sidelong. "You really smell like sulfur, actually." The distance between Sam and Vaughn grew by about a step. "All right, I get it, you got to know him and he's not normal, definitely, and he healed your leg. That's great, he sounds really…he sounds super nice, Sam, and I'm glad you…found somebody. But I also remember the way he treated you when they first brought him in. He spit on you, he kicked you in the leg, and that was before he fixed it! And he's…he's still a…" Sam hadn't known somebody could squirm while they were half-jogging. "He's a demon."

Sam took a deep breath, Purgatory's air sharp and effervescent in his lungs. Just talking about Dean had something tangling painful in his chest. How long had it been since he'd been this far away from him, since he hadn't been able to bring him back with a phone call or a loud enough yell? He was about to launch into his much-practiced defense, but he didn't get the chance.

"Be quiet, now. Both of you," Vaughn's mother snapped, glancing over her shoulder, glaring at Sam. "I don't care if you've screwed fifty demons, you still smell like a human, and that's bad enough. You wanna bring every soul here down on us?"

Heat prickled Sam's face and his eyebrows drew together, but he didn't respond. She was probably right. They were moving fast through the woods, weapons out, trying not to attract attention, and he didn't know how much further away the doorway to Hell was. Vaughn kept looking at his mother, and then at Sam, expression sort of pinched. After a while, Sam cleared his throat awkwardly.

He knew her name, was positive he did. It started with E-L...something. Wasn't it –

"Eleanor?" Sam asked, voice low. Vaughn looked at him, shocked, and his mother spun around. "...that is your name, right?"

"How do you know that?" she demanded.

"Well, when they brought him to me," Sam began, gesturing at Vaughn, "they also brought a lot of crates full of…y'know, notes and research. From the…" He coughed. "He wrote down your name."

Eleanor looked at Sam for a long few seconds, eyes icy and brighter than a human's. They'd all stopped moving. She turned to Vaughn eventually.

"Do me a favor and run ahead real quick?" she asked him. "Make sure there's nothing up there we need to worry about. Be quiet as you can, obviously, just like always."

"Yeah." Vaughn took off, smaller of his two knives in hand, and he was already out of earshot by the time Sam uneasily asked, "That really the best – ?"

"He knows how to take care of himself," Eleanor interrupted. "I taught him how to." Sam had run across werewolves who didn't bite as hard as the edge in her voice.

Quiet, he began, "I'm sorr – " but she cut him off again.

"As far as I'm concerned, you're every bit as bad as the Dochtúir." Sam had just started to frown when, patronizingly, Eleanor added, "That's what we called him. The man who killed me. Us monsters. Speaking of…I know what you did, Sam." Coming out of her mouth, his name was a slur. "You experimented on us. You killed us. Vaughn might've been brainwashed enough, after the way he was raised, to think you actually cared about him and…had his best interests at heart or something, but you're the one who got him killed. My only larva. So I need you to listen."

Eleanor stalked towards Sam, until the toes of their boots were touching, and looked up at him. She was almost a foot and a half shorter but Sam had a momentary urge to shrink away from her. He nearly grabbed for Dean before remembering.

"I only saved you from the vetala because of Vaughn," Eleanor spat through gritted teeth. "I'm only showing you the way to Hell because of Vaughn. He's the only reason I haven't popped my spike through your skull, but I owe you absolutely nothing and I'm not your friend."

"All right." Sam nodded. He wasn't sure if Eleanor accepted that or not.

But at least she backed off.

They started walking again, Eleanor stiff in the shoulders and legs, reminding Sam of the way Dean was around Castiel. Vaughn came back after maybe ten minutes, breathing a little hard but otherwise fine. He paused, seeing his mother and Sam, then swallowed.

"Nothing," he announced. "Totally deserted out there. Just like we like it." He gave his mom a tentative smile, and she put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

"Good job. Thanks."

Before too much longer, they came across a stream, running fast and clear over a bed of stones. Eleanor and Vaughn led Sam down the bank to where three trees had grown together, their roots laced over some big rocks. Sam frowned when Vaughn declared that this was it.

"Here. It's behind the rocks. Just gotta…" Vaughn went to move one out of the way, grunting, and Sam helped him. As soon as it tumbled free, all of a sudden, there was a strong, sucking wind, dirt being pulled into the hole they'd revealed and leaves fluttering hard around it. Even with all the air drawing into it, it stank. Blood and sulfur and, above all, the terrible putrid reek of mold on food that'd turned weeks ago. Sam was used to nasty smells, but actually had to cover his nose for a second so he wouldn't gag.

"There you go." Eleanor spoke up above the low, howling whistle of the wind. "Your ticket into Hell. I assume you know how to get back out of Purgatory, too, and if you don't…well. That's not really our problem." Sam saw Vaughn turn to frown at her, and Eleanor added, "Come on, Vaughn. Time to go."

"But ca – "

"No. We've done all we can." Eleanor held out a hand, but Vaughn made no move to take it. Sam took a few steps towards her instead after a second, quietly clearing his throat.

"Can I talk to you, just for a second? Privately?"

Eleanor glared, looking him up and down, and with an unpleasant sear of adrenaline, Sam recognized the pattern her eyes were tracing: she was mapping out his vitals. His hand tightened just a little on his machete, but she just whirled away from him and stomped off a good few yards. Sam followed and Vaughn tried to, but Eleanor ordered him to stay put. When Sam looked back at Vaughn, he was standing by the portal, hair too short for the wind to bother it and frown still in place.

"What?" Eleanor snapped as soon as they were, presumably, out of earshot. "And I saw you fondling that big knife of yours. If you're gonna try – "

"No. I'm not." Sam held up his free hand. "I swear. I was thinking that, maybe, I could…try and take Vaughn back out with me."

"No," Eleanor said immediately. "Absolutely not. It was your fault he wound up here so early in the first place, remember? Haven't we been over this?"

"I can make that right."

"Oh. So you've got his body, huh?"

Sam's jaw worked. "I-I burned it, but maybe – "

"No." Eleanor stabbed a finger at Sam. "You've used up all your chances."

"So you really, actually want him to stay here – " Sam swept a hand around to indicate all of Purgatory. " – for the rest of eternity?"

" _Here_ , he's with me. He's safe. He can be a real wraith. And even if he left, he'd just come back here soon as he died, and you can't keep him from dying. 'Specially not if it happens decades after you're pushing daisies. Centuries. If we avoid silver and get enough to eat, we can hang on that long. Longer."

Sam was about to keep arguing when Eleanor came forward, mosquito-wing fast, and grabbed a handful of his T-shirt. He felt her spike pressing into his stomach like a stiletto and wrestled hard with instinct to keep his machete down, Vaughn's gaze boring into him.

"Somebody like you already took him away from me once," Eleanor growled, low under her breath. "It's not happening again. I'll die over and over and over before I let it."

She let go, stepped back. Sam looked at her, at what she was wearing on her face right now. He'd seen it before, tried to talk past it, and it'd never, ever worked. Not with Gordon, not with Kubrik.

Maybe they'd still be here, when he came back out of Hell, even if Eleanor said they were leaving. Maybe he could track them down with Kevin in tow.

Maybe he could come back to Purgatory later and spring Vaughn then.

They returned to Vaughn, who looked like he'd been about to run over and jump between them any second. As soon as Sam was close enough, Vaughn hugged him again, the wind pulling at both their clothes. Sam had forgotten how tall he was, shorter than him but still almost six inches past Eleanor.

Sam didn't know what to tell him. That he was going to fail him all over again? Abandon him? That he couldn't rescue him? It was tempting as hell to lay all the blame at Eleanor's feet, but Sam couldn't bring himself to do that.

"I gotta go," Sam mumbled after what felt like a good five minutes.

"I know." Vaughn pulled back and smiled up at him, corners of his mouth twitching and eyes shiny. "I'm…really glad I got to see you again, Sam."

"Me, too." They exchanged one last squeeze, and then Vaughn let Sam go, backing up a good ways. Eleanor, behind him, put her hands on his shoulders.

Sam turned away from them both after that, swapping his machete out for his demon-killing knife. He shook himself out as he faced the gaping hole in front of him, blowing out a breath and trying to push at least some of his tension with it. It didn't seem to work.

"Here we go," Sam muttered to himself, then stepped forward, sucked instantly in.

* * *

Sam wasn't really sure what he'd expected out of Hell. He'd figured that the fire-and-brimstone model wasn't exactly accurate, but that was about it. Wasn't like he'd heard any firsthand accounts. The only possible witnesses were demons, and none of them were ever super stoked or anything to talk about the place where they'd had their smoke carved out of human souls. They all talked in riddles, metaphors.

Dean had called it a body. If that was true, then this part of it was rotting.

The portal spat Sam out in a corridor, of a sort, and it hit him immediately. The smell nearly knocked him flat on his ass. Decaying fruit and meat, the musty scent that came off mold and fungus itself, the familiar reek of infection, corruption. It was made worse by humidity, clinging and filthy. There was an underlying note of sulfur, almost lost in everything else. Sam might not have even noticed it if he wasn't used to Dean.

It wasn't just the stench, though. He'd been able to feel Purgatory, pure in the way a cleanly-breaking bone was, a cut made with a freshly-sharpened knife. Hell was…not like that. Sam felt it like grease cleaning to his skin, and it was immediately inside him, too. It felt like disease, that was the only thing he could call it. It was like being aware of a debilitating psychosis suddenly developing. Like knowing that first cancer cell was dividing when it should have died. It had him, or it was getting him, and Sam instantly wanted out, out, _out_.

Was this what it felt like? All over? And this…thing had been growing and creeping in Dean's brain, every day, for over a thousand years? Sam was weak suddenly with a desperate need to touch him, hold him, maybe tell him he got it now. He knew it wouldn't help but he wanted so bad to try.

It'd all have to wait until he got back. For now, there was Hell itself to keep him busy. Sam gagged again and then had to cover his nose, knife held out at the ready.

The floor was a patchwork of mold and slime, putrid fluid welling around Sam's boots with every step he took as he began to, gingerly, move forward. There were fruiting bodies shaped like brains and eggs near the curved walls, and growing on them. Sam stayed away from those. Mushrooms sprouted off the walls, and delicate clusters of one variety gave off light. They were more or less the only thing that did, and their light was an eerie green.

Dust filled the air, filtering thick around the glowing mushrooms like it would've in a sunbeam. Sam thought it was dust, at least. He realized what it actually was when he passed a round growth on the wall, about the size of a cantaloupe. It deflated, spores bursting out of a hole in its top in a rush of smoke and coating Sam's clothes. He coughed, swiping the cloud away from his face with both hands, and could only hope that he wasn't slowly killing himself by breathing all this shit in.

He wished he would've brought a bandanna, something to tie around his nose and mouth. God knew there was enough of them in the trunk of the Impala, Dean had some weird obsession with them. Sam focused firmly on that, on light things, on Dean especially, and not the horrifying feeling running along the inside of his skin, lowering the arm over his nose as he got as used to the smell as he was probably –

Something wet hit Sam's head and he jerked, shoulders hitching like there was a fishing line anchored between them. He looked up to see some crap with the general consistency of snot dangling from the ceiling in fat drops, glowing like the mushrooms but blue and much dimmer. He gagged again as he tried to wipe the stuff out of his hair, which just made his fingers slimy, too, and started walking faster.

Where were all the souls? Was he in the wrong part of Hell? Maybe, since it wasn't like he could've nicely asked the portal to drop him off where he wanted to go. He was going to have to go looking for them if that was the case, and wouldn't that just suck, since he only had twenty-four hours until Dean came for him and Sam _could not_ make him come back here, the place that made you feel like maybe you had something nameless and unspeakably terrible festering in your spinal fluid right this instant, like maybe it'd be better if you died or just broke…

Panic was just beginning to feather the edges of every breath when Sam passed through an archway of veiny fungus, and found cells lining the walls on either side of him.

Webbed membranes covered their entrances, translucent enough for Sam to see people behind them even without the fist-sized holes that dotted the stuff. It looked so fragile somebody ought to just be able to tear it open with their bare hands. Sam realized quickly, after peering into just a couple cells, why the occupants hadn't done that. Most were nursing terrible wounds, and the ones who looked more or less whole were vacant, a lot of them already going dark in their eyes from what he could see in the mushroom-light. They didn't move, or mumbled to themselves, plucking at the mold in their cells with crooked-fingered hands.

Sam moved slowly down the hallway, knife at his side. He looked in each cell, breathing in the spores, and they were overripe-sweet and sticky on his tongue.

He should've asked Dean what Kevin looked like. How was he going to figure it out?

"Who're you?" The voice, breaking, made Sam jump as bad as the slime had, and he looked at the cell on his right. The guy in it was old, seventies, maybe, and half his face was sloughing off, sliced free of the bone. "You aren't one of them. You aren't one of us. Why're you here? What are you?"

Sam swallowed. "I'm sorry." He needed to see how far this place went, how many souls they were, and maybe that'd help him come up with a plan. It was so hard to think around the thing in his brain. "I'll be back."

"What are you?" the guy repeated, and Sam wasn't sure he'd even heard him. He moved on and, as he went, more and more voices reached him, one by one. Coming from those who could still talk. Fading as he got too far away from them.

"Don't take me today. Please don't take me today. Take anybody else, take my husband, take my parents, my fucking kids, I don't give a shit anymore, don't take me."

"I'm…everything's brighter now. I feel so light. I'm like smoke. I'm like smoke. I'm like smoke."

"Didn't know it'd be like this. Didn't know this would happen. Should've let her die. Didn't know it'd be like this. Didn't know this would happen. Should've let her die. Fucking _bitch_ – "

"Please. Please. Please. Help me. Help me. It's growing inside me. I can feel it around my eyes. It's on my tongue. It's eating me. I need to die, it's in my guts, it's in my heart…" That voice, Sam paused next to its cell, because there was a severed arm sticking out of a hole in the membrane, mold caked on the nails and a tiny mushroom growing between two prominent knuckles. And it was moving, groping almost reflexively at the ground. He'd barely registered that the voice was muffled before he realized with kneejerk shock and revulsion that the arm wasn't severed, it was just that the rest of the body was buried underneath the mold of the floor. Sam forced himself out of place, stumbling a little. Sounded like a woman. Probably not Kevin.

"I'm almost almost almost there, gonna be so good, all over over over soon, black black black…"

"I'll read the Tablet. I'll tell you what you saw. Just get me out of here, I'll read, I'll tell, put me someplace else, I'll read, I c-can't take it any – "

"Lord, please. I was so pious, I gave so much. I worshiped every Sunday, I buried my unclean urges, I cast out my own flesh and blood for his sins, why won't you deliver me from…?"

Something clicked in Sam's head suddenly, once he was a few cells gone, and he turned and hurried back. There was someone standing at the membrane, clutching at a couple holes and peering out through another. Patchy scruff, shaggy black hair, wiry. Asian and probably in his twenties. When he saw Sam, hope burst onto his face, but then he drew back, frowning.

"Why're y-your eyes…?"

"Because I'm not a demon." Sam dropped his voice low as he could. Whispers carried. "What's your name?" Should've asked them all that to begin with, he realized now.

"You're…oh, you're gonna be in so much trouble, s-seriously, trust me. Must be new. You gotta get back in your cell, dude, they're gonna…"

"Please. Your name, okay? I really need your name."

"Uh…okay." The guy sucked in a deep breath, looking up. "A-all right. So. Been a while, but I know it starts with a J. K! Starts with a K." He knocked his hands together, mumbling. "K…ate. No, th-that's a girl's name. Kkkkyle. Nope, not that. Ke…vin. Kevin! Uh, Kevin, my name's Kevin. Kevin Tran." He smiled, looking tremendously proud of himself, then quickly sobered and glanced around, wary.

"Okay." Sam nodded. "Perfect. Stand back." Kevin took half a step back, confused, and Sam went to work on the membrane. It was tougher than he'd thought, about the same consistency of human skin (and oh, did he hate that he knew that). He had to saw at it with the serrated section at the base of his knife.

The second he started, a huge burst of spores suddenly filled the air, coming from at least a dozen different mushrooms. Sam had to stop to cough and gag and rapidly blink watering eyes. _Shit_. He went back to cutting, faster now.

Kevin scrambled all the way back, gone from wary to flat-out terrified. He pressed his back against the wall, bursting a couple egg-sized fungi, but didn't seem to care about that as he demanded, "What're you _doing_ , man? W-what d'you want from me?"

"I'm human. And I'm alive, I didn't come from here. I'm – " Sam finished with the knife, and the two halves of the membrane fell loose, dangling like curtains in the doorway of the cell. "I'm here to get you out."

"Why?" Kevin nearly whispered it.

"You're an innocent soul. I'm getting you out of Hell."

"You're doing the Trials?" Kevin asked, incredulous. "The Trials of God. To close the Gates of Hell."

"Sure am. And we should really, really get outta here." He held out a hand to Kevin.

Kevin didn't take it, didn't move off the back wall of his cell. Cautiously, he asked, "How d-d'you know about the Trials? Like, exactly."

"Dean told me." Sam felt his absence like an amputated limb. Hell's influence or atmosphere or whatever didn't help.

"Dean's dead." Kevin swallowed, so hard his throat jumped. "You guys made sure to tell me that early on. And remind me e-every damn day."

"Well, he…got better. I met him topside." Sam ran a hand through his hair, immediately regretted it when he felt all the spores and slime. What could he tell him, to prove he actually knew Dean? They'd both been with him. They probably both had a lot of info on him. "Uh…he likes classic cars. He likes classic rock. He used to be an alcoholic…"

Kevin wasn't convinced. Sam needed to go deeper, and his cheeks warmed up.

"He's got some freckles, right above his left ass cheek…" Sam took in a deep breath. "And they look like a smiley face."

Kevin just sort of blinked at him, and Sam, still blushing fiercely, realized that that could've been seen by somebody cutting Dean up. He threw his hands halfway up.

"He likes Vonnegut."

"…oh." Something shifted in Kevin, and he came off the wall, approaching Sam like a beaten stray. "So you…you really know him." Once he was close enough, Sam patted his shoulder. Spores flew off him in clouds. "I guess we better go, then."

Relieved, Sam guided Kevin out of his cell and down the hallway with a hand on his back. He made sure they were moving fast, because he was starting to get a really bad feeling.

Other souls in other cells spoke and cried out, again, as they passed. Some wanted to come with them. Most just sounded grateful that they hadn't been chosen this time.

"So…about the Trials." Kevin was already panting. "Don't know if Dean t-told you this or not, but the last one, it's…you're not gonna be able – " He fell abruptly silent, and Sam was confused, looking at him. They'd just passed a glowing mushroom. Maybe he had something on his face? Kevin blurted, "I know you. I've seen you. What…your name. What is it?"

"I'm Sam."

"Winchester?"

Sam blinked. "Yeah, but how do you - ?"

"I'm sorry," Kevin interrupted. "I'm so, so sorry, man. I'm…oh, jeez, I am so sorry."

Sam opened his mouth to demand more information, but as they came up on the veiny archway, he heard something. Footsteps squelching in the soft floor. Moving on impulse and instinct, he grabbed Kevin, clapping a hand over his mouth and pulling him against himself as he threw both of them to the wall. Hidden behind an outcropping of growth that shielded them from the rest of the corridor, he ignored the way that Kevin went immediately limp in his arms. Like he'd been trained not to resist.

Sam peered through the sliver of a gap between two translucent, faintly-pulsing pods, and set his jaw when a demon swaggered into view.

"Did one of you sad fucks finally grow enough of a pair to try and break out?" it drawled. "Surprised your balls haven't rotted off by now, honestly…gotta applaud you for trying, but you should really know better. This is gonna mean at least a week, in the mold, without your skin."

Demons could probably look like whatever they wanted at home. This one was mostly human, moss and mold scaling his skin like the world's grossest armor, a wet membrane draped behind him like a cape. His eyes were black, of course, and he had horns like a steer, dark and ethereal. A crop of mushrooms sprouted from his brow like a second set. As he came casually around the corner, Sam steeled himself, every bone in his body locking into place, muscle memory sliding home.

When he rushed the demon, Kevin yelped.

It alerted the demon. Soon as he saw Sam, his eyes widened. They were bigger than a person's would've been. "You're – "

He raised a hand. Sam recognized the gesture, pushed right past with no problem at all. The demon's weak attempt shattering around him like frozen spiderwebs.

 _Thanks, Cas._

Sam's blade slammed into the demon, squelching like his boots did in the floor. The body dissolved instantly into black smoke that looked more like wet paper, which writhed for a couple seconds around a skeleton of red and white lightning. It crumpled in towards the blade, and then just dissipated, leaving Sam breathing hard and soaked in adrenaline.

"Huh," he said to himself, roughly. "So that's what it looks like."

He half-wished he had a notepad on him. Which was stupid. Irritated, he shook that thought off.

He was helped along by another massive burst of spores. Coughing, eyes stinging, Sam turned to Kevin. He could barely see him in the thick fog, but he was where he'd left him.

"Gonna be a lot more where that one came from. We gotta go." Kevin in tow, Sam took off.

Shrieking started up behind them, howls, roars. Sam wasn't sure if they were coming from the prisoners or from other demons. The mold tore and slid under his feet, made even slicker by the fluid slopping out of it, but he stayed up and kept Kevin with him. The closer they got to the portal, the louder and nearer the cacophony behind them got, and the more spores there were. Sam swung an arm firmly around Kevin as they dove back into Purgatory. He could've sworn he felt a hand grabbing at the back of his jacket at the last second, but the fingers were so soft they couldn't get a proper grip.

And then they were out. The air was clean and pure. It was so shockingly bright, searing straight into Sam's eyes. He gasped, stumbling on leaf litter and almost pitching straight into the water. Kevin out and out screamed at the top of his lungs, falling free of Sam's grip. When Sam looked at him, eyes squinted and streaming, Kevin was on his knees, doubled over and with both hands pressed firmly to his own eyes.

He was filthy, jacket and ripped jeans covered in mildew, mold webbing his long hair. But he was out. And so was Sam.

Sucking in great lungfuls of air that didn't fur his tongue and throat, Sam glanced warily around as he got his balance and bearings. His vision was a smear of watercolors, but he could pick out trees and rocks, and being in a forest again made his leg flicker with cramps after where he'd just come from. He also saw two figures, crouched a little further up the stream. Sam brought his knife up, heart practically slamming into the back of his teeth, before he realized that they were both nearly-neon redheads.

Vaughn was already coming towards him and, even with his eyes practically flooded, Sam could tell he was ecstatic. He stopped a few feet away, though, hand coming up like he wanted to cover his nose.

"Oh, wow, you stink," he stated. "Hope you're okay with me not hugging you this time."

"Yeah, I don't blame you." Sam wiped at his eyes, and that helped a little. He saw Eleanor, glaring at him, not moving to leave her crouch. Vaughn had noticed Kevin, who was rocking and moaning quietly to himself, and was frowning down at him.

"Who…who's he?"

"Somebody who never should've been in Hell in the first place. He's the innocent soul that I told you I needed. Y'know, for the Trials? And he's also…" Sam glanced at Kevin. "Dean's ex."

Kevin didn't even appear to register that. Sam looked at Vaughn, vision more or less back to normal by now, and tried to shake as many of the spores off his clothes as he could get. Maybe they should get away from the portal. Could demons pass through it? Did they even know it was there? Something else, something he should've registered way before now, occurred to him, and he stared at Vaughn.

"Wait a minute. What're you two still doing here? I thought you were gonna…"

"He wouldn't let us leave." Eleanor straightened up, came over with a grimace on her face. "Pitched a goddamn hissy fit every time I tried. You would've thought he was fresh-hatched."

Vaughn blushed, the color violent under his fair skin. "Mom!"

"What? He had you for months. Sure he's seen plenty of your meltdowns." Eleanor glanced at Vaughn, eyebrows raised, then returned her attention to Sam. "You sure took long enough."

"...I appreciate it." Sam looked at Vaughn again. "You sticking arou – "

"We shouldn't've." Eleanor cut him off, icy. "Come on. Let's get you and your dead weight out of here as fast as we can."

She turned away, ignoring Vaughn's second "Mom!" Sam wasn't sure if she was actually going to leave without them or not. Turning to Kevin, Sam helped him slowly up. He kept his touch gentle as he could, but Kevin flinched away from him anyway. He relaxed after a second, hand still clamped over his eyes.

"What's wrong with him?" Vaughn asked in a murmur.

"He was in the dark for a long time. The light's hurting his eyes. He'll be a lot better off once he gets to where he needs to go."

"And that's Heaven?"

"Yep." Sam nodded as he got Kevin walking. Eleanor was already yards ahead.

"We don't really have that. Monsters, I mean. No Heaven, no Hell, just this place, for all of us. No matter if you ate any people or not. Mom explained it to me when I got here." Vaughn fell into step beside Sam. "Maybe that's a better system. It sounds like, if you're human, the right souls don't even go to the right places."

Sam swallowed. "Yeah." All other responses failed him.

It didn't take long for Eleanor to get really, really fed up with the snail pace that Kevin was moving at. Honestly, Sam was pretty antsy, too. But every time Eleanor turned to snap at them, Sam shot back. Even if Kevin hadn't been such an integral part of the Trials, it wasn't like Sam could just leave him out here in the middle of Purgatory.

Kevin's eyes had adjusted to the point where he could take his hands off them, but he was squinting through swollen lids and tear-tracks glistened dull on his face. As they walked through the muted colors of the forest, he spoke up, talking to Sam in a low voice.

"I-I know Dean died. I know they killed him and took him to Hell for what they thought he was trying to do. So…how'd he come back? Did you raise him or something, to talk to him about the Trials?"

"Uh, no." Sam coughed. "He…sorta came back on his own."

There was a long silence from Kevin. Then, tentatively, "Is he a demon?"

Sam sniffed, swore he felt spores in the back of his throat. "He is. But he's not really a normal one, by any standard. When...if you guys meet, or meet again, you'll get what I mean."

Eleanor gave them about the twentieth dirty look in as many minutes. It was fairly clear she wanted them to keep their mouths shut for everybody's safety, but Kevin must not be able to see her expression.

"H-how'd you know about the freckles? The…smiley face."

Sam took a deep breath, started very carefully. "Well - "

Before he could answer, a shadow flickered over the top of his head, the ground in front of him.

"Look out!"

Vaughn had gotten in front of them and Sam tackled him, taking him hard to the ground. He felt the wind slam out of him, heard him cry out breathily in pain. Eleanor started to shout, but then talons with about a hundred pounds and sixty miles an hour behind them struck Sam's back. Sam gasped.

Beating wings ruffled his hair, the smell of feathers and, faintly, carrion wreathing his head as the thing on his back shrieked. He could feel the claws digging, trying to hook under his ribs, and of course Dean and the fact he wasn't here to back him up was the first thing Sam thought of. But then there was the gristly slicing of razor-chipped obsidian through meat and bone, and blood squirted across the back of his jacket, and the weight fell. The claws twisted inside him before they came loose, and Sam swallowed a howl at the tearing of his flesh. Eyes watering, gasping towards a full breath, he slowly pushed himself up.

He checked Vaughn as soon as he was on his knees, the ritual of it second nature to him. He looked shell-shocked, was wheezing hard with his pupils pin-pricks in his Arctic ice irises, and he'd probably be covered in bruises later, but otherwise he was fine. Sam even checked his spikes, and they were still safe and whole inside his wrists.

The brand-new corpse and its head were in off his peripheral vision. Tan-spotted brown wings, yellow eyes, human head with feathers around the eyes to form a facial disk. Massive claws.

Sam finally noticed Eleanor, standing with blood dripping off her largest knife and an unreadable expression on her face. As soon as she saw him looking, she shook her head.

"We have to run. And if your friend can't…" Eleanor and Sam both turned to look at Kevin, who was standing still and stiff where Sam had left him, like a rabbit hoping to be ignored by a predator. "Then he's getting left behind. Actually, maybe we oughta do that anyway. It'll slow whatever's coming down."

"Yeah. I don't think so." Sam got to his feet. His back wasn't hurting too bad yet, and he hoped that he had enough adrenaline in his system to keep it that way until they got the portal. He and Castiel hadn't really covered healing yet. Grabbing Kevin's arm, he brought him out of his reverie. Kevin blinked owlishly at him, brown eyes huge and wet. "C'mon. Let's go. Gotta keep up."

They had to survive, Sam had to finish the Second Trial. And beyond that, he wanted to get out of this fucking forest, because it was looking more like Vermont to him by the second. Almost like Hell still had a hook or two in his brain. He kept seeing tall, spindly shapes, starving and clawed, shuffling between the trees out of the corners of his eyes. Running sounded great to him.

Good thing Kevin was fast. He didn't have too much trouble keeping up with Sam, and he definitely cornered easier. As they ran, hot on the heels of Eleanor and Vaughn, Sam asked him, "Can you handle a gun?"

"N-no."

"How about a machete?"

Kevin shook his head, pieces of mold flying off his hair.

"Butterfly knife?"

"I-I don't…"

Kevin was a Prophet, he'd been dating Dean…hadn't he taught him anything? Maybe he had and Hell had eaten all those basic combat skills out of him. Sam didn't say anything about it beyond, "Let's just focus on running, then."

 _Dean._ How many more hours until he mounted a search-and-rescue mission in Hell? Sam had no idea. His watch had stopped, maybe the spores, maybe the damp, and the not-knowing was like teeth in his stomach.

The prospect of getting back out and him not being there cut even deeper.

There were way more monsters on the way back than there had been coming out here, and Sam knew, guiltily, they'd picked up his trail. Things came snarling out of the trees every few minutes, it seemed like, and Sam was panting, five different colors of blood running hot and cold over his machete hand and drenching that arm of his coat. Eleanor took his back, charging like she'd been waiting for the creatures she ran through with obsidian, Vaughn and Kevin between them.

Maybe Vaughn didn't need to be there, though. The first time Sam saw him hamstring and then gut another monster, he almost lost a hand, not paying attention to his own fight. Eleanor had said she'd taught Vaughn how to take care of himself. That must've been what she meant.

When Sam lunged at a creature trying to circle around behind him, and the wounds on his back stung, something occurred to him. They should've been hurting worse by now. Not only that, but he should also probably be running on fumes. Full of pulled muscles and bruises, not to mention starving, and so thirsty his tongue felt like sandpaper.

Sam supposed he should be grateful, and that he should be focusing on the monsters.

It was mostly werewolves and vampires coming after them, but also a whole host of others, some he'd never seen before. One caught his attention, something that had to be a siren, since it came at him wearing Dean's face, calling out to him, telling him it was so glad it'd found him.

Kevin choked a little, and maybe Sam did, too. Thankfully, Eleanor chopping it savagely to pieces saved him from having to figure out how to kill it, though Sam was sure there was a nightmare about it waiting for him somewhere down the line.

Sam started recognizing things as they came up on the portal. Plants, stones, bodies he'd left in his wake. The reality of leaving was euphoric. Maybe that was why he didn't react, at first, when something staggered out of a thicker stand of trees. A lot like something similar had moved out of a side cave, near the way back out into dazzling sunlight, blocking the path when Sam was seventeen.

The sunlight was really bothering it. It cringed away from it, and the tiny eyes streamed tears like Kevin's still were. But things must be different in Purgatory because it was out here, during the day, where it didn't belong and couldn't live. Sam saw the long arms, the claws, the jagged teeth and ragged ears, and he was utterly frozen, couldn't even breathe.

His stomach might as well have been shot out of him. Everything was distant, like he was tiny inside his own body all of a sudden, floating miles from his eyes. The only thing that felt close was his leg, muscles straining so hard against themselves that his knee bent and his foot pointed. Sam staggered, a high ringing in his ears, but didn't let himself fall.

Had he ever even left Maine? Or had the eight years in between just been some kind of panicked hallucination, something he retreated to as he darted through the tunnels of the cave and the trees of the autumn forest? He knew it was stupid somewhere, but the sick certainty of that overwhelmed him, the assurance nothing had ever been really right, that the bone-deep terror and the grief and the smell of death and dampness hadn't ever fully left him.

Maybe it'd even killed him, the same abomination that'd taken his father down. Maybe he had bled out through his leg and this was his own personal corner of Hell, and there'd never been anything else, and this was where he'd be forever. Everything else only in place to torture him more.

He wasn't sure what hurt him worse, watching the thing stagger closer and closer on mismatched legs, gore crusted on claws that looked exactly like the ones that'd crippled him. The abstract prospect of _forever_ with it or the possibility Dean wasn't real.

But Vaughn was nearby. He might've been saying his name. Sam grabbed him, shoved him behind himself, and something that felt bigger and brighter than the whole rest of who Sam was woke up in him.

Drops of what he could do, his full power, had come out when he was working with Castiel. Shavings, painstakingly pried off and offered up. Something told him that this wasn't even the entire thing, this wasn't what it could be when it reached its full potential, but it was more than had ever moved inside him before, and it crowded out everything else.

His heart was pounding in his ears and eyes, he couldn't hardly see, it was all too bright and he wasn't entirely sure the light wasn't coming from inside of him. The forest and the _thing_ all jumbled together in indistinct, blurry shapes and Sam wasn't sure he would've even known how to direct it, the power pulsing and thrumming along the lines and curves of his body, if Vaughn hadn't been there. Sam thought about him having to watch Eleanor die, pieces of her spread out over yards and yards as her screams gurgled away, about Vaughn's leg being destroyed and his entire life with it, about nobody being left for him to fall on when he went down. Something in Sam snapped and sharpened and went singing through him like a chorus of angels, and he knew what to do, maybe for the first time in his life.

He threw a hand out. And the wendigo _broke_.

It crumpled, ribcage and abdomen and arms and legs folding and twisting in on each other. It coughed out blood, dark and gelid, right before it fell, and wheezed once, and then there was nothing else, and Sam could feel it die, and his leg released in a cool bloom.

The comedown wasn't pleasant. When he slammed back into place inside his own body, he stumbled on his weak leg, then fell to his knees, shaky and with his heart pounding in his ears. His mouth and chin were wet and his fingers came away bloody when he touched, nose leaking like a faucet.

Sam looked over his shoulder. The world took a second to turn with his head. Eleanor and Vaughn were staring at him. Their eyes were enormous, freckles like sparks against skin gone paler than normal. Only Kevin didn't seem surprised.

As Sam forced himself to his feet, Vaughn swallowed. Then swallowed again, and again, like he was having to work himself up or remind himself how to talk.

"Wh…at – " he started weakly.

"Lot more I need to tell you." Sam forced a smile. "But right now, we gotta go."

There was a brief respite when they reached the base of the ridge that held the way out, back to Dean. Sam tried not to think of it as the calm before the storm.

Turning to Kevin, he pulled the paper out of his pocket and a clean knife out of his jacket. "All right. What d'you say we get you outta here?"

He moved to cut Kevin's arm. As soon as he took a step towards him with the blade, Kevin flinched back so violently he almost fell. He definitely would've bolted if Eleanor hadn't grabbed him.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Sam apologized. "It's a ritual, gotta cut both our arms to get you out, just a little cut. Promise. Barely hurt." He handed the knife over to Kevin, slowly, hilt-first, and Kevin took it with shaking fingers.

Eleanor let go as he cut into himself, tracing a bleeding squiggly line in the flesh of his forearm. When he gave the knife back to Sam, almost dropping it, Sam held his eyes as he sliced himself.

"It's almost over," Sam told Kevin earnestly. "You're almost out. And nobody's ever gonna hurt you again in Heaven."

He put the knife away and grasped Kevin's hand firmly, feeling the trembling that went all the way to his bones. "Conjuncti sumus, unum sumus." Kevin dissolved into sunset-colored light, all whites and peaches. The light flowed into Sam's arm, nestled under the skin like veins made of fire, and it was warm and sort of nice.

Sam looked up at the spot where the portal would appear. Then he looked at Vaughn, and felt like his crushing headache had spread to his chest. He didn't get the opportunity to say anything before a howl, terrifyingly close, split the air.

Eleanor looked at Vaughn, too.

Then she shoved him right into Sam. "Take him."

Vaughn turned to look at her, and it took Sam a half second or so to find his words. Eleanor beat him to the punch.

"I told you already. I'll get him back eventually. This is where he'll come, and you know what? I _want_ you to make up for what you did to him. No matter what you are. Maybe it'd be better if you had to live with the guilt, but he shouldn't have to suffer for your punishment." She lifted her chin, and it sounded like she was dragging the words wet and raw out of her one by one. "He belongs in here. He belongs with me. But he deserves to grow up. And this isn't any place for him to do that. Don't think he even can."

Sam wiped blood off his mouth, tried to say something again.

"If he comes back in less than a century, though…" Eleanor pointed a knife at Sam. "I don't care how that fucking thing up there works, I don't care what you can do to me. I'm coming after you. And I will drink you dry over a period of months. You'll die with half a year of spinal headache under your belt and brain damage. You'll claw off your own face."

Something Sam couldn't identify burst into view, and Eleanor was beelining for it after his next blink.

"M-mom." It was just a whisper, Vaughn not even trying to make her hear him. He stepped away from Sam, and he was openly crying.

There were two monsters now and Eleanor was hard-pressed to hold them off. They didn't have any more time.

Sam handed Vaughn the knife, cut his own arm, recited the incantation, took him into himself. There'd been more red in Vaughn's light, more orange.

Both of Sam's arms felt warm and light. He climbed the ridge, the portal ripped to life. He looked back, saw Eleanor decapitating one creature while another barreled into her. Then his feet were ripped right off the ground, light vanishing in front of him.


	29. Chapter 29

_It's not like I don't like him. He's fun to be around, we have a good time when we're hanging out, the sex is awesome. Was a lightweight when I first met him but now he can practically drink me under the table, and he ought to get a medal or something for that. He's wicked smart, too, great to have in my back pocket, I don't know what I would've done without half the things he's figured out for me._

 _His mom's a bitch but, y'know, can't be helped, at least I've only met her the one time._ _Shit_ _, she_ _does not_ _like me. Or him, seems like, all that much. I think she had bigger plans for him than this. Yale, probably. Harvard. Marrying a nice Vietnamese girl. Universe threw at least two wrenches I can think of into all that. Actually kinda funny. Not for Kevin or his mom, but. It's funny._

 _Anyway. Keep feeling lately like he might want more from me. For me to say something else to him. It's almost like he's waiting for it. I call him every day when I'm out working a case, though, and whenever I'm not, I'm at his place. I've got a key. I've known him for a good five years, got my second-longest relationship way beat._

 _He's listed as my goddamn emergency contact, little card in my wallet. [Note in margin: Does Kevin know? Tell him.] With the way I've been feeling lately, it's a matter of when they call him, not if. Only hope I'm not dead when they do._

 _Isn't all that enough? Do I really have to say the L-word?_

 _Personal journal of Dean Singer, c. 1978_

* * *

Sam burst out of Purgatory with his brain still feeling too large and tender for his skull, copper-reeking fluid sloshing in raw, sensitive sinuses. He barely had time to note the mid-morning light bouncing off the snow, making this transition easier than the one from Hell, before his feet stopped hitting the ground right and he collapsed directly into Dean's arms.

Sam latched onto Dean instantly, buried his face in his neck. Their stubble caught almost painfully, the hard-pointed bronze amulet crushing bruises into both their chests, but he was focused on sucking in the smell of sulfur. It wasn't like what'd been in Hell, under the must and rot. Dean's was sweeter, cleaner. Comforting. His fingers were digging into the messy wounds the harpy talons had made on Sam's back, but Sam wasn't about to complain.

"I killed it," Sam mumbled against the meltwater-slow pulse in Dean's throat, only half-realizing he was talking, "and I got him back."

"What?"

Sam closed his eyes. "Nothing."

Time passed. Could've been a minute, could've been ten. All Sam knew was that it hadn't been long enough when Dean muttered to him, "Dude. You reek."

Sam would've snorted, if he wasn't afraid of blowing blood all down Dean's back. "Trust me. I know." He opened his eyes and pulled back some, looking at the dirt, monster ooze, and Hell-slime all over his Carhartt. You couldn't even tell it'd used to be tan. "I…think I'm gonna need another new jacket."

"What, you think we're made of fake credit cards?" Dean smirked, but then frowned. "Shit. Nose is going off again."

Sam went to wipe it on his sleeve, since it wasn't like his jacket could get any grosser at this point, but Dean reached up and grabbed the bridge of his nose with rough fingertips. Heat seared through Sam's sinuses with an audible crackle, and he jerked free in time to see Dean sag some. He looked like he was trying not to yawn.

"Did you retrieve the Prophet?" Castiel demanded, nearly making Sam jump. He hadn't realized he was standing so close...and now that he looked over Dean's shoulder, Death was here, too, wasn't he? Sam had almost forgotten about him. He wrenched his attention back to Castiel.

"Uh…yeah." Surprised the angel couldn't sense Kevin inside him, Sam raised his left arm. There was still a thrumming warmth inside it, corded through the muscles.

"You'd better go ahead and release him then, hadn't you?"

Sam looked at Death when he spoke, startled. He was standing some distance off, both hands on his cane. Meeting Sam's eyes, he raised his brows.

"Wasn't that the point of this entire thing?"

Dean still had an arm secure around Sam's shoulders, and Sam glanced at him. Dean swallowed, face unreadable, then nodded. "We need to let him out."

Sam rolled his sleeve up to reveal the gently-waving tendrils of light under his skin, like some kind of bioluminescent undersea plant. He brought the knife out again, human and wraith blood crusting on the blade, and took a second to wipe it clean as he could, grimacing. He repeated the incantation after Dean.

"Solvo haec phantasmata in terram, et inde ad olympum."

It was incredible he still remembered it after so long. Sam cut himself for the third time that day and set Kevin free.

Soul-light streamed out of the slice in Sam's arm, collecting a few feet away from them. It coalesced into a human figure, blazing so bright Sam had to look away for a second, then faded back down into Kevin. He looked exactly like he had in Hell and Purgatory, baggy eighties clothes and shaggy hair, but out here, he was clean.

Kevin saw Dean almost immediately, and when he did, he practically jumped back, jerking and flickering like an image on a broken TV.

"S-sorry," he apologized after a bit. He was still flickering, though, and his eyes were enormous, entire body held as still as he could get it. "I didn't mean. Y'know. It's just…"

"No, no, I get it." Dean sighed, straightening up and helping Sam to his feet. His arm slipped down, around Sam's waist, still holding him tight. "Didn't have a chance to do my hair this morning. Or my makeup. I'm sure I look like Hell." He smirked, but it was an expression that wouldn't have looked out of place on a corpse. "Literally."

Kevin huffed out a nervous laugh. There was a short silence, so awkward it practically burned. Eventually, tentatively, Kevin asked, "What…happened?"

"Not a whole lot to it," Dean replied with a shrug. "Hell-squad found me, chucked me downstairs, they brought in Cain, and I got a brand-new pair of black peepers. On the house."

"A-and you also traded up." When Kevin looked at him, casual tone so obviously forced, Sam winced. "From a Prophet to a…a…uh, well, I'm not sure exactly what you are, Sam, but – "

"A Messiah," Castiel cut in. "He carries the power of God in his soul. He was fashioned and destined to save the world."

"That'd…wow." Kevin looked, bug-eyed, at Sam again. "S-so, yep, that explains a _whole_ lot, actually." When he glanced at Castiel, he squinted. "What're you, then?"

"A seraph. An angel of the Lord. Assigned to protect Sam, teach him, and set him correctly upon his intended path."

"That explains why you're so bright."

"Kevin." Everyone turned to look at Dean, and he shifted. His hold on Sam tightened, and Sam put a hand on his shoulder, watching his eyes drop. "I…this whole thing, it was 'cause of me. Listen, if I'd known you were in Hell…"

"No. Dean." Kevin, frowning, wasn't looking directly at him. "I-it wasn't 'cause of you, trust me. They just…really wanted a Prophet. Something to do with…" Gesturing to Sam, Kevin cringed a little. "I don't know any details. At all. But they've got really big plans, and. None of them are good."

"So I've heard," Sam agreed quietly.

Nobody said anything for a long minute. Kevin flickered and buzzed, looked down at his sneakers. He spoke up after a while, softly.

"I really missed you."

Sam glanced at Dean, saw his throat work. It was quiet when Dean replied. "…I missed you, too."

"I-I was worried, super worried. They told me you were in Hell. That's the first thing they told me when I woke up in the Pit. So I'm really glad to see that you're doing good…well, not 'good,' exactly, you're a demon, but – " Kevin cut himself off with a hard wince, then motioned to Sam again after a second. "You're happy, aren't you? And that's great. I'm happy for you, you deserve that."

Dean's head tipped oddly at that last part. Kevin didn't seem to notice, looking at Sam.

"C-can I…can I talk to you alone?"

"No." Dean hadn't meant for that to come out so harsh, Sam was sure. He jerked Sam against himself. Kevin blinked a step back.

"Hey." Moving his hand from Dean's shoulder to the back of his neck, Sam dropped his head in close. "It's okay. I'm not going anywhere, and he is…definitely not a threat. I'll be right where you can see me, it'll just be a second, I'm sure."

" _No,"_ Dean ground out, glaring with black irises.

It felt weird to kiss Dean with Kevin watching. Sam did it anyway, sulfur singing sharp on his tongue. He didn't even want to think about what he probably tasted like to Dean right now. When he pulled back, he repeated softly, "It's okay. I promise. I'll be right back."

It took a second, but Dean's arm loosened around Sam's waist, then dropped. He could practically hear the joints creaking rustily. Sam stepped back, and Dean gave him a look like he'd taken half his skin with him. Sam swallowed guiltily.

"I'll be right back," he promised, then turned to Kevin. "Okay. Let's go." He glanced at Death. "If that's…?"

Death shrugged. "He's already dead, not to mention decades overdue for his final destination. I may be a bit of a stickler, but I'm certainly no Anubis. A few minutes won't make a difference in the grand scheme of things." He appraised Sam and Kevin with glittering eyes. "Just so long as it's no longer than a few minutes."

Kevin swallowed gulped. "Yes, sir."

Sam turned away from the group, walked into the forest. Dean's eyes were like a lead weight hanging off his shoulder blades, Castiel's next to them. He ought to be feeling the effects of what he did in Purgatory, but there wasn't anything besides the headache, which was slowly pulsing down now. And the gashes on his back, but they seemed to be scabbing up.

He got maybe twenty yards out when Kevin glitched in near him, overshooting him by a good six feet and hurrying over. "This is fine," he assured, and Sam humored him.

Kevin stuffed his hands in his pockets, sucked in an unnecessary breath. "Thanks. For…getting me outta Hell. That is literally the best thing anybody's ever done for me. And I definitely don't wanna disparage that, but the Trials. Maybe Dean doesn't remember. Y-you oughta know they can't be completed, though. The last one…you have to cure a demon." He shook his head, laughed bleakly. "It's like some kind of sick joke. No, it probably is. I've read a lot of God's dictations, totally in character for Him to string us along doing all this dangerous shit but not let us actually – "

"No, I know," Sam interrupted. "I've…kinda got a ritual. To cure a demon. I'm not sure if it actually works or not, but I figure it's better than nothing."

Kevin just stared for a second. Then he shook his head again, looking at nothing as he let out a little laugh. "Wow. Dean _really_ traded up, didn't he?"

Sam put his hands in his own pockets, looking away.

"But seriously." Kevin drew his attention back. "For everybody's sake. Hunters, humans in general, everybody. I really, really hope you and Dean pull it off."

"Thanks," Sam said quietly. "I do, too."

A pause. It seemed like they were all long and awkward right now.

"I'm not jealous or anything, definitely," Kevin started. "Not mad, either. Lots of stuff has obviously gone down, D-Dean is way different. But. About you and him."

Sam knew what was coming, could feel a speech he'd been giving every few weeks for going on a year balanced on the tip of his tongue. He felt tired, reaching for it.

"I know. He's a demon. But I know what I'm doing, I'm being careful, Dean wouldn't – "

"Oh, no, no." Kevin cut him off, surprised. "That…that wasn't what I wanted to say at all, dude."

Sam's eyebrows rose. The speech withered gladly in his mouth.

"I loved Dean," Kevin started. "Really loved him. He didn't always make it super easy, but…he was, _is_ , still probably the best person I've ever met." Kevin paused. "I thought about how I'm the reason he found out about the Trials every single day after he disappeared. I'm still not sure why I told him. I knew he'd either finish or die trying, it was like he didn't have a choice. That was just the kinda guy he was...is.

"Obviously, he hasn't changed that much. Even as a demon. If he's helping you out."

"I…did have to talk him into it," Sam admitted. "Plus perform a memory spell I'm not all that proud of." The memory of Dean's pain and panic was like a hot, sick coal, burning high in his stomach, and he couldn't help glancing over his shoulder to see him standing tense near Death and Castiel.

"He'd do anything for you," Kevin said bluntly, and Sam closed his eyes. "I've heard the way you talk about him. And I saw the way he looks at you. I noticed the siren, too, and I know what they do…pick out your deepest desire, the thing you want most. Goes both ways, though. You're good for him. I'm pretty sure you're exactly what he needs right now." Kevin pinned Sam down with a look sharper than he would've expected from him. "I need something from you too, though. I need you to promise me you're gonna take care of Dean."

"Yeah, of…of course," Sam promised immediately, but Kevin shook his head.

"I don't think you get it," Kevin told him. "If Dean thinks it's come down to you or him, he'll choose you in a heartbeat. And it wouldn't just be himself, either, I think. If he…feels about you the way I really hope he does, he'd set the entire goddamn world on fire for you without a second thought. And the demon thing might be part of that but he was like that when I knew him, too." Kevin stared at Sam, earnest, pleading. "You _can't_ let him do that to himself. Don't make him choose. Don't make him carry that for the rest of his life. And don't make him watch you die. He's too good a guy for any of that."

The wounds on Sam's back stung like wings were trying to break through. He expected his leg to cramp but oddly, it didn't, just a lightning flash of phantom pain flickering deep through it. He nodded without having to think.

"I won't," he told Kevin quietly. "I promise."

That seemed to be enough for Kevin.

"The things you know about me. The things you told the demons. Can you…d'you remember any of them?" Sam asked, after a beat.

The moment broke. Kevin shook his head, sighing.

"I delivered a couple prophecies. I think. There were only a couple useful pieces of info in them, though, and…Hell didn't like that. All I could tell them was that the Messiah would come into its own in the first decade of the twenty-first century. So, y'know, this one. The stuff I saw that had to do with you, specifically…" Kevin hesitated. "It's just bits and pieces. Nothing useful. Visions, they…I can't really explain it. It's not like a documentary of the future or anything."

"No." Sam grimaced. "I get it."

"But there _is_ something. I didn't get a vision about it or anything, but Dean…after the Second Trial, he…well, it wore on him. He was in really rough shape, he was really sick. Probably how the demons got the jump on him. It was bad." Kevin looked at Sam. "But where you're, uh, Jesus, it might be different. It probably won't hit you anywhere near as hard, you probably won't even feel it."

Sam thought about blood in snow, strange exhaustion, a constant low-grade burning in his lungs and his stomach. He swallowed, smiled.

"Yeah. Yeah, you're probably right."

They returned to the others.

Dean was there as soon as Sam was within touching distance again, pressing close, holding tight. His relief was a cool, touchable thing, light against Sam's skin. His nose brushed the point of Sam's jaw and Sam wrapped an arm firmly around him, tight enough it might've hurt a human.

"Oh, don't hurry on my account, by any means," Death said, and Kevin practically crackled with static as he ducked his head.

"Sorry, sir," he mumbled then, uncertainly, looked around. "So…what happens next, then?"

"Heaven," Castiel told him. "You were a Prophet. You loyally deciphered a Word of God and delivered many useful visions. All that would be enough to earn you a guaranteed spot in Paradise, but you've also languished in Perdition for many, many years."

"I…helped Hell, though." Kevin's voice cracked, face twisting as he looked at Sam. "I told them so much – "

"Man, don't even start," Dean stated at the same time Sam said, "That wasn't your fault."

"They're entirely right," Castiel agreed. "No one can be blamed for what they do in the Pit, least of all by God." He looked at Kevin almost kindly. "The mantle has been passed on. It's time for you to rest. A very special place awaits you in Heaven, one you should have reached long ago."

Kevin relaxed, as if all the hardness and tension in him had drained into the earth. Dean wasn't looking at him, wasn't really looking at anything, Sam noticed.

"How'm I s'posed to get there?" Kevin asked, voice soft, weary, a little slurred, as if he were about to fall asleep.

"I should be able to help with that." Death beckoned to the trees, and a girl walked out. She was around Sam's age, dark-haired, pretty. She smiled at Kevin, held out a hand.

"It's time to go," she said. "Let's get you where you belonged to begin with."

Kevin swallowed. He looked at Sam, then Dean, eyes almost stuck to the latter.

"Go on," Sam told him. "You earned this."

"Yeah, I…thanks again. For springing me." Kevin was still looking at Dean. Really looking at him, not skating his eyes off him like he had been earlier. "So. I guess this is…goodbye, huh?"

Dean finally met his gaze, his own eyes so black smoke curled over the edges of his lids like thick lashes. His grip on Sam's shoulder was so heavy it was like he was using him to hold himself up. "Yeah."

"We didn't really get to say that, last time."

"Nope. Kinda snuck up on us."

Kevin glanced back and forth between Sam and Dean, eyes a candle-flame flicker. Sam wasn't sure which one of them he was talking to when he said, "Take care of him."

Dean straightened at that, like a soldier given orders. "Already planning on it." Sam just nodded.

Kevin turned away from them, finally took the girl's hand. Tentative, like he was expecting her and everything else around him to sag and crumple and tear away, revealing the mushrooms and mildew of Hell. Looked like her grip was firm, though, and she led him away into the woods and the snow, putting more and more trees between him and the rest of them until Sam couldn't even catch a glimpse, peering through the steam of his own breath.

Kevin was gone. Dean leaned against Sam, smoke lapping on lips and lids.

"That's a twenty-year-old wrong finally set right, then," Death announced a moment later. He looked at Sam. "Congratulations, Sam, you've made the scales of an _incredibly_ unfair universe just a little more balanced. My paperwork tonight will be that much easier."

Sam mustered a smile, kind of expecting Death to follow Kevin, but instead, he just stood there, eyeing him. It went on until Sam started getting nervous, silence stretching long and cold between all four of them. Finally, Dean asked, "Something else we can help you with, Bones?"

"Yes, actually," Death replied, then spoke to Sam. "Your soul's like an open reactor; the light can hide a lot. But really, my boy, I'm second only to God Himself, and maybe not even that. Did you really think I wouldn't notice the extra passenger you're carrying?"

Sam's breath stuttered. Automatically, he grabbed his right arm as heat flared in it, realizing too late how guilty that looked. He was only dimly aware of Castiel and Dean both staring at him in shock.

What was about to happen? Would he have to put Vaughn in Purgatory? Eleanor, charging monsters so Sam could get away with her only child, flashed brokenly through his mind.

 _Think I'd rather die._

"I'm not going to begrudge you a souvenir." Death shook his head, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "One little wraith jumping back and forth across the Veil is hardly going to bring the fabric of reality down around our ears. But…Sam." Death looked at Sam dead-on, something he'd never done before. If he had, Sam'd remember feeling like an insect pinned cold to corkboard, fresh from the kill jar with fumes still in his lungs and nerves going flat and still in tiny, rudimentary muscles. "I want you to know that this is your one free pass. Your Lazarus. Messiah or not, there will be no bringing anybody else back after their soul has been collected and delivered, or else you and I are going to have to have a very long chat."

Death turned away, and Sam was alive again, breathing and shuddering deep inside himself. He watched Death stride off into the trees, following the path Kevin and the girl had taken, and let out a long, shaky sigh as soon as he'd melted out of sight. Dean looked at Sam once they were alone again.

"Did you seriously smuggle that wraith kid outta Purgatory right in front of _Death_?" Dean asked him. The air was Maine-winter icy, but Sam's face felt hot.

"What...'wraith kid?'" Castiel frowned.

"Sam's little brother," Dean offered by way of explanation, and Castiel's frown deepened.

"But he was…he's the final offspring of the Winchester and Campbell lines. The only child of John and Mary. And even if John had laid with a - "

"He's not my little brother," Sam interrupted. "He's…" He hesitated, then sighed. "I don't know. But I couldn't leave him in Purgatory!" He directed that last part at Dean, who put an understanding hand up.

"No, hey, I get it. I'm just impressed you even found him."

"He found me. Him and his…super scary mom." Sam paused. "Actually, you and her probably would've gotten along."

Dean almost smiled at that, then asked, "So what're you gonna put him in?"

Sam just blinked. "What?"

"The kid. Vaughn. What're you gonna put him in?"

"Uhhh…"

"I mean, you kinda torched his body, so…what're you planning on doing with his soul?"

Sam stood there. Eleanor had asked him that, too, but he'd totally forgotten about that by the time she handed Vaughn over. _Shit_ , what was he going to do? How the hell was he going to –

 _Wait._

Sam pulled loose from Dean, who stayed about an inch away from him as he went to grab his backpack (laying against a nearby tree). He dug the box at the bottom out, peeled the tape off, and hurried back to Castiel to show him the ash inside.

"Can I fix this?" Sam asked intently. "With my…my powers."

Castiel spent a long time just peering into the box, fragments of bone and chalky ash and pine-forest dirt. He cocked his head, then looked up at Sam. "We can certainly try."

It wasn't a no, so weight came off Sam's shoulders. Castiel reached for his forehead with two fingers.

"First, though…I apologize, I should've done this when you first returned."

When Castiel touched him, it was just like it'd been back at Bobby's place. Dirt, sweat, blood, and spores were instantly gone, the wounds on Sam's back were closed up without a trace. His headache was wicked away, and so were a dozen other hurts so small he hadn't even been aware of them. He staggered back a step purely out of shock.

"Showoff," Dean muttered when he steadied Sam, then locked eyes with him. "You let Kevin out. Remember, you gotta say the incantation and finish the Trial."

Sam saw Castiel go rigid out of the corner of his eye. "I know, I know, but I wanna try and bring Vaughn back first."

Castiel eyed Sam with massive disapproval when he turned to face him. "If I help you rebuild this wraith of yours, will you forgo finishing the Second Trial?"

"No," Sam and Dean said together. Castiel's mouth flattened.

"I expected as much. Come here, then."

They took up their positions from the cell in Georgia, Sam kneeling on the ground, Castiel behind him with his fingers on his temples and his wings encircling him. Dean crouched nearby with his hand running up and down Sam's bicep.

"If you can manage this, it's going to hurt," Castiel warned. "It takes a lot of energy to return a severed soul to dead flesh, and you'll be using even more to replace what burned when the creature was cremated. I'll lend you as much as I can, but I don't want to risk killing you."

"You sure this is a good idea?" Dean asked. "That it's safe?"

"I am. The Trials of God, on the other hand…" Sam, eyes fixed on Vaughn's box between his knees, could all but hear them glaring at each other. "Almost all other Messiahs have raised people from the dead and healed grievous wounds. This is essentially a combination of the two." Sam heard the soft whisper of feathers. "Now. Shall we get started?"

Castiel's coaching and guidance were, as per usual, vague and uncomfortable. Sam, though, was focused entirely on Vaughn as the chill of the ground crept up into his legs. Comic books, pig brains, messy refrigerators, unlocked doors. He remembered finding him dead. He remembered burning him. He knew he could do this. He knew he had to do this.

And he did.

It was slow, the corpse coming together like the world's most invasive autopsy in reverse. It was a million-piece puzzle where Sam also had to build every piece before he placed it, but that wasn't a bad thing. Even as the cold nipped at his core and exhaustion ached along his spine, he almost enjoyed the challenge of the detail work.

The sun was setting by the time the corpse laid whole in front of Sam, dirty with the earth he'd buried the ashes in. Vaughn was pale but looked like he was just sleeping, hair long again and fanned out in a copper curtain on the ground under his head, cheek pressed into it and purple veins in his eyelids and temples.

Sam's headache was back with a vengeance, everything in his vision pulsing and trailing ghostly double images. His nose was bleeding again, despite being healed about five times by an increasingly-weary Dean, and he was sweaty and freezing at the same time. He swayed and panted, an angel keeping him up on one side and a demon on the other.

"You did it." When had Castiel taken a knee next to him? "Sam…you rebuilt him. Entirely on your own."

He sounded stunned, and Sam realized he hadn't expected him to actually be able to do it.

"You sure did." Dean patted him, nearly hard enough to send him over, then grabbed him to keep him still and straight. "Oh, shit. Hey. I bet you need to eat something, don't you? Fuck, okay, that's my fault…stick the anklebiter back in his meat so we can wrap this whole thing up and get you taken care of, you look like crap."

"Thanks," Sam said dryly, and Dean pulled him close, like he was trying to share his heat.

Sam let Vaughn out the same way he had Kevin. The bloody-blue light of his soul circled the body a couple times, like a nervous animal, then streamed unhesitantly into the slightly-open mouth. And then Vaughn jerked, sucked in a breath as his eyes yanked open, and he sat up. He touched himself, frantic, then almost in awe as his movements slowed and soothed. He looked around and found Sam. He flung himself at him, and Sam caught him, tightly squeezing the flesh he'd just stuck back together layer by reconstituted layer.

"You did it," Vaughn whispered giddily to Sam. "Knew you could." He stilled after a few seconds, pulled away some, and Sam realized he was looking at Dean, super close to them both. "So that's your, um, demon boyfriend. Does he like Dean or Dandelion?"

Dean sighed loudly, dropping his hand. Vaughn huddled into Sam like he wanted to crawl inside his jacket.

"Dean," Sam said. "You don't have to worry, he's not gonna hurt you."

"No," Vaughn muttered. "He won't get close enough to. I think. I'm a lot faster than I used to be...and a whole lot better with a knife. Just in case." A pause. "What's the other guy? In the trench coat?"

"An angel. Don't worry, he's on our side."

Dean snorted. Sam stood, unsteady but doing his best to hide it, pulling Vaughn gently up with him. Vaughn stayed stuck to his side, as wary of Castiel as he was Dean. He was only wearing a T-shirt and even in the fading light, Sam could see goosebumps coming up under the dirt. Cursing, he shucked out of his heavy jacket and draped it around Vaughn's shoulders.

"All right, we gotta get outta here before he freezes and you keel over," Dean told Sam. "Second Trial. Let's go." He looked at Vaughn. "He told you about that, right?"

"Yeah. He did."

"Awesome. Scooch on over so he can finish it."

Very reluctantly, Vaughn peeled himself away from Sam. He looked back and forth between Dean and Castiel for a long few seconds, then moved over to stand a couple feet away from Castiel, who regarded him with naked curiosity.

"Sorry," Vaughn told Dean.

"'S fine. Theme of the day, seems like."

"Are you absolutely certain," Castiel asked Sam, tearing his gaze away from Vaughn, "that you want to finish this Trial?"

"What the hell're you so worried about?" Dean demanded. "He's already done the hard part. Gone through Purgatory and Hell, that was dangerous. Might as well do the, y'know, last, easiest step."

Castiel was silent as Sam took a deep breath. Dean turned to him and asked, "You remember the words?" Sam nodded.

 _"Ka na om dar."_ He braced himself for the pain, which hit maybe two seconds later. Heat seared along his bones like the world's roughest workout, and they pulsed deep inside with fever. He grabbed his right arm, sliced up, blazing like a star even through the layers that covered it. Every breath hurt like his lungs were stiff and cracking. It dropped Sam hard to his knees, and he was barely aware he cried out, but it felt…oddly good, in a way. Cleansing. It was more powerful than the first time, but it wasn't anything like his visions. It didn't make his headache worse or anything.

"Sam!" Vaughn yelled, panicky. Sam looked over, saw him smack hard into something invisible – Castiel's wing.

"Don't worry," Dean told Vaughn. He was crouched next to Sam, one hand on his shoulder and the other in his hair. "This is totally normal."

"Unfortunately," Castiel agreed, voice tense.

The pain faded, the tide rushing out, clouds blown free of the moon. Sam felt hollow and light and purified, nearly like he could walk on water. He flushed as soon as he thought that.

Sam climbed to his feet and Dean came with him, keeping a firm hold on him. Sam waited a few seconds, then let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding when a vision didn't smash him to the forest floor. He didn't pass out, either. He turned to Vaughn, hands pressed against Castiel's unseeable wing, with a smile.

"I'm fine," he assured him. "And that's two down, one to go, before I can close the Gates. More than halfway there."

Vaughn smiled back wide, shaky-relieved, and started to say something. Sam didn't hear him, though, as something terrible hit him out of the blue. He stumbled, socked by a massive wave of dizziness and exhaustion and nausea. His entire world skewed and he was lighter than air…

He was falling. Dean caught him and it knocked the wind out of Sam.

"Whoa, whoa, hey."

It felt like Sam'd shotgunned a good five or six beers on an empty stomach. He clutched at Dean's shirt, eyesight shot to hell, and spat out the blood that his nose was suddenly fountaining again.

"Christ, Sam, you got a faulty washer up there or something?" Sam grunted when Dean once again fixed his nose with a touch. It started dripping again almost instantly. Sam leaned more heavily onto Dean, feeling vaguely bad about the blood soaking into his shirt, and Dean took his weight. The ground wasn't steady underneath him but Dean was standing okay. Must be a demon thing. "I…fuck, is this normal?"

"Jussst overdid it," Sam assured him, then swallowed, metal tanging in his throat. "'M gonna puke. Maybe."

"Sam?" Vaughn asked, frightened. Dean adjusted his grip on Sam, heaving him up, and Sam's stomach lurched.

"Can you fix this?" Dean asked.

"No," Castiel said after a pause then, testy, pointed out, "You're the one who wanted him to finish the Trial so badly."

"Oh, don't you lay this on me. I couldn't stop him if I wanted to. Neither of us could." A second later, Dean stood Sam upright again. He cupped his jaw in one hand and Sam blinked at him, Dean's face swimming in and out. His eyes were black, shining in the dying light glowing off the snow, and concern had carved lines in deep around them.

"'M fine," Sam protested, then swallowed again, very hard. Couldn't throw up, it'd just be blood and that'd freak everybody out.

"We gotta get you to Bobby's," Dean muttered. "Hey. Feathers. Grab the kid, okay? I've got Sam. We're heading back to the car and then we're beelining to Georgia. I'll call Bela, she'll meet us with the van soon as we get to town." He looked at Sam again and tried for a smile. He didn't quite get there. "You're right, you just overdid it. Temporary side effect. You'll be back in top form by the time we cross the state line, just wait and see."

Sam fell against him for the second time, not sure if it was because his legs couldn't hold him or if he'd just rather be close. Maybe both. Dean had said he'd be okay. He had every other time.

But Sam'd heard the doubt in Dean's voice, the fear, clear and constant as the sulfur that underlaid all the rest of him.


	30. Chapter 30

_Cloven into castes are Mine servants and First Creations, the Angels. Stronger than all the rest are My Archangels Four, most beloved to Me..._

 _The Seraphim, numerous and bloody, are My warriors. Lower Angels, born are they of fire and falling stars, with silver daggers and wings so sharp as to cut through shadow itself. Live they in a Garrison, overseen each by a stronger Captain. Love they one another, and Me above all, and obey they without thought or question..._

 _No Angel may love any besides his brother or his Father, his Lord God, Me..._

 _No Lower Angel may betray a Higher. This I decree._

 _\- Excerpts from Angel Tablet (translated from Enochian)_

* * *

When Sam woke up, he didn't take in where he was, who was all but wound around him, or even how he felt. Everything from bones to skin was focused totally on getting him up and out, into thin, cold air, where he buckled to his knees in the snow and started violently throwing up.

There wasn't a whole lot in him. Stomach acid, thick ropes of what he really hoped was mucus. And blood. Mostly blood, actually. Big clots of it and fresher, wetter stuff, too, staining everything from pink to a deep, rich crimson-black. Steam billowed up from it, it melted into the snow. Every time that Sam thought he might be done, considered getting up, he heaved again.

"Son of a _bitch_." That was Dean. Sam might be almost all crippling nausea and a jagged rift of burning pain that ran from groin to throat right now, but he knew that Dean'd followed him out, was crouching next to him with a hand on his back. He leaned hard into the touch.

Sam would've tried to talk to Dean but he still wasn't finished, ripping in desperate breaths between retches that shook his ribs and spine where they fastened to each other. Maybe it wouldn't stop. Maybe he was about to pass out, or die. Shit, that'd almost be better than this.

It finally passed, though. No more gagging, no more puking. Sam was hunched over, gulping in air, hands numb in the snow and stomach cramping up. He gave himself a minute, then slowly straightened, sweat sticking his hair to his scalp. He was shaky, floating on adrenaline and the sheer relief of not vomiting anymore.

Dean still had a hand on his back, put another one on his shoulder to steady him. When Sam looked at him, he was staring, eyes clear but the look on his face suggesting they should maybe be black.

"You good?" Dean asked carefully. "I mean…shit. Obviously you aren't."

Sam glanced down at the red mess that'd come out of him. Too late to cover it up.

"Uh, so." His voice came out thin and rusty, and clearing his sore throat didn't help. "All the nosebleeds I had yesterday. Must've just ran down into my – "

"That's bullshit, Sam." Dean cut him off flatly. He looked him over and Sam, icy water seeping into his sweatpants, shook.

Dean helped him to his sock-covered feet. For the first time, Sam realized that they were back at Bobby's, right outside the workshop. Dry flakes of snow fell thin around them as Dean got him inside.

A fire roared high in the woodstove and heat folded around Sam, easing his shivering bit by bit. It didn't get it all, though, and he recognized the cracked-glass feeling in his bones. He had a fever. Maybe he had the flu again.

Dean stayed silent until he started helping Sam out of his socks and sweats, both cold and wet. "I'm getting you changed and taking you to a hospital."

"We can't," Sam answered immediately. Just picturing beds with rails, wires and tubes tethering him limb and chest like a dozen umbilical cords, and lights that never fully went off had pain knifing up the back of his left leg, then fading away just as quick.

It was more than that, though. More, even, than the memory of restraints and a patient voice telling him he'd lost forty percent of the muscle and eighty percent of the function. Sam could see, clear as a vision, a nurse or a doctor holding blood test results and talking quietly to Dean. No, into a phone. On the other end, someone who knew what it meant when you triple-checked body fluids and they kept coming up as something other than human.

"Sam, I just watched you puke about a gallon of straight blood," Dean started.

"It wasn't a gallon, and it wasn't straight blood, either. It was just some blood…that's what it looks like when you throw up after a really heavy nosebleed. Honest." Sam's teeth clicked against each other as he talked, still shivering and his jaw not quite moving right. His mind kept sliding one way, then the other, and he fought to focus. "You can't take me anyplace like that. It's too…exposed, Dean. What about demons? What about all the other hunters out there?"

"You think I can't protect you?" Dean demanded.

"I think it'd be easier for you to do it here," Sam pointed out, throwing out an arm to indicate Bobby's whole place. "If I start hemorrhaging all of a sudden, sure, get me to an ER. But for now, I'm fine. Trust me."

Dean straightened, studied Sam for a long time. Sam did his best to stare back but his vision was pulsing around the edges, a blur of thready colors. He didn't even realize that he'd started to list to one side until Dean caught him.

"Fine." Dean didn't sound happy about it. "We'll stay put. For now."

He draped a blanket around Sam, sat him down on their mattress. Sam stared at his wrists, bony, sticking out of the sleeves of a sweater that was too small for him. A wash of veins shadowed the pale undersides.

"Feeling like you're gonna puke anymore?" Dean asked eventually. When Sam realized he was the one who was supposed to answer, he shook his head.

"I don't think so."

"Good. Good. All right. Gotta get some water in you, at least." Sam didn't answer, pretty sure Dean was talking to himself. "Gotta take care of that, and then we'll deal with everything else…okay, yeah, here, spit. Right, just nice and slow, hey, easy, easy, _easy_ – "

Sam lowered the nearly-empty bottle, thin plastic crackling halfway back out to its original shape, and gasped as he wiped at his lips. "Sorry. Just…" He hadn't realized he was so thirsty.

"You're fine. It's good. Just…slow it down, yeah? Haven't had that much in a while and we don't want you chucking it all back up."

Sam nursed his next bottle of water. Dean sat next to him on the mattress, so close they were in the same divot in the foam, arm loose around Sam's hips. He watched him, and Sam was used to it, but he was so intent that it kind of started to get under his skin. He forced himself to crack a smile. Literally. The dry skin on his lips split painfully.

"Do I look that bad?" he joked.

"Yeah, you really kinda do." More staring. Sam finished the second bottle. "Maybe it's time we rethought you doing the Trials."

Sam knew he ought to have a hurricane of a reaction to that. It hit all the right parts in him. He just didn't have the strength to churn it out.

He crushed the empty water bottle in trembling hands with knuckles that looked huge. "It was just off my nosebleeds, Dean. I swallowed so much last night – " Glancing at Dean, Sam amended, "Or maybe it's an ulcer or something. But we can treat that, Cas can heal it, maybe I can heal myself, even. But it's not something that needs to stop me from doing something so…important."

"Isn't it?" Dean asked quietly.

"You sound like Castiel," Sam snapped. Maybe he had a little strength after all.

Dean smirked at that, looking down and nodding to himself. After a second, he asked Sam, "How long you think you've been asleep, Sam?"

The question threw Sam. It was morning, he thought. The sky was light, a uniform gray like a sheet of flannel. Hadn't he just finished the Trial last night? They had to have teleported back here.

"I don't know, a…a few hours?" Sam guessed tentatively.

"Try more like thirty," Dean replied. "You passed out before we even got you in the car, and I'm talking, like, a hard, deep sleep here. Practically like you were dead." His jaw set. "I woke you up a few times, got your clothes changed, got a couple bites and sips in you. But I'm guessing you don't remember any of that?"

"…no."

"Doesn't surprise me, you were pretty out of it." Dean rubbed a hand over his face. "Scared us all half to death. Me, Cas, Vaughn."

"Vaughn. How's he doing?"

"Great. I'm not thrilled about where he's bunking…" Dean crooked a finger, and a sleeping bag near the door rose like a caterpillar, a comic book sliding off it. "But he's getting along really well with Bobby, and. Yeah. He's just way too worried about you to sleep anywhere else, and we're a little short on space up here anyway."

Sam dropped the empty bottle and went to push himself up. Dean's hand falling onto his shoulder made that tough.

"Whoa, there. Where you think you're going?"

"The cabin. Wanna see Vaughn, and Bobby. And if I've been asleep for more than a day, I need something to eat. Ulcer or not."

"Yeah, you do, but how 'bout I cook it and bring it to you? I'll bring your mini-wraith, too."

"I wanna go to the cabin." Sam concentrated, and Dean's hand slid off as he straightened. He didn't even sway. "I really need a shower, too."

"Fine. Jesus, we'll go. Just don't go running out there in your bare-ass feet again."

As Dean helped him into jeans, boots, and his jacket, Sam asked, "So anything major happen while I was out?" It was meant to be a joke, but it didn't sound like it.

He knew sleeping as long as he had wasn't a good sign. With a settled stomach full of water, he wanted to bring the Trials back up, but Dean was like a diamond next to him. Brittle and sharp. Sam didn't want to crack him, and knew he was in no shape to win an argument besides.

"Well, for one, Cas got called back to Heaven pretty much as soon as we hit the cabin."

Sam blinked at him. "W-wait...you called him Cas." And didn't sound nearly as happy about him going home as he should've.

"What, am I not allowed to call him that?"

"No, you are, it's just…did you guys have a heart-to-heart or something while I was in Purgatory?" Sam almost smiled again, caught himself just in time.

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Did you seriously think we'd just wait around with our dicks in our hands 'til you got back?"

Sam blinked. "So, wait. You actually did have a - ?"

"No. We just talked. Mostly he bitched about the angel who's in charge of him…not Anna, even though I can see how she'd grate on somebody. The other one. And I." Dean's throat worked, like the words got stuck for a second, and he fingered his amulet. "I definitely get that."

Sam didn't say anything. Dean got annoyed with the silence quick.

"Look, it ain't like he's my new best friend or anything. He's annoying as hell and I still wish he'd just butt out and leave us alone, 'specially you, last thing you need is Heaven fucking around in your life. But…it sucks. Having to answer to your boss."

A beat of silence passed. Sam looked around the cabin, at the scattered books, the broken pencils, the little doodles on spare sheets of paper. Not all of them could be Vaughn's. "Were you in here with me the entire time?"

"'Course I was." Dean answered like it shouldn't have even been a question. "Well, 'cept for once. There was a demon down in town." He waved a hand vaguely in that direction. "Don't worry, I killed it."

"Did it have anything to do with the Prince?"

"What Prince?"

"The one that showed up while we were in jail."

"Oh. Yeah. Nah, it didn't."

"How d'you know?" Sam pressed.

"I'm a Knight of Hell, Sam," Dean said dryly, nudging him finally towards the door. "Sometimes I know stuff like that."

Sam let himself be steered. "So…it was a scout, then?"

"Probably. Don't gotta worry about it anymore, that's the point."

"And you're sure it was just one."

" _Yes_. Jesus. It was just one. Give it a rest, Twenty Questions, you want breakfast or not?"

"Sorry." Outside, they waded shin-deep through soft, powdery snow, a slight depression marking where the walk between the workshop and cabin was. Dean kept a steadying hand on Sam, who didn't say anything because he knew he needed it. "Anything else? While I was down for the count, I mean."

"Well," Dean admitted, reluctantly, "I guess there was kinda one other – "

" _Samuel Marion Winchester!"_

The back door banged ferociously open, juddering on its hinges when it hit the wall. A woman strode out, so furious it practically bowled Sam over, and it took him half a second to recognize Ellen. He hadn't seen her in years, there was more gray in her hair than he remembered. And he definitely couldn't remember the last time she'd been so mad. He barely even noticed Jo hurrying out after her. Or Vaughn in the window, looking torn between coming outside and staying out of it.

"Oh, am I ever glad you're not dead," Ellen started, "'cause it means I get to put your ass in the ground myself."

Sam couldn't even think of a reply, had the weirdest urge to sink into a crouch, head bowed. Dean had his whole arm around him now, holding him protectively. He was angled slightly between Sam and Ellen.

When she reached Sam, she seemed to actually see him. It tempered her some, made her stop a few feet away, and Sam didn't even want to think about what was so bad it had her doing that. She was nowhere near calm, though.

"Just what made you think that it was okay to lie to all of us for the past six months?" she demanded.

"It hasn't been six months." Sam realized his mistake as soon as he spoke, clenched his jaw hard. Ellen was glaring, and he cleared his throat. Even after rinsing it out, his mouth tasted like blood and acid. "What…what d'you think I lied about?"

"Oh, I don't know." Ellen threw her arms out. "Maybe the angel? You figuring out that it's you and you alone that Hell's been after this whole time? Or how about the fact you're apparently some kind o-of…world-changing demigod or some shit?"

"Yeah, so, she knows everything," Dean muttered in Sam's ear, still close enough to him they were breathing the same air, grip on him still handcuff-tight.

"Thanks, Dean, I couldn't tell," Sam replied sarcastically. To Ellen, he pointed out, "I told you when I started having the visions."

"Then why didn't you tell us the rest?"

"It…the Roadhouse got burned down because of me."

"We don't know that." Ellen was shaking her head.

"Seems pretty obvious." Sam looked at Jo when she spoke. Her hair was wound back in a messy bun and she was wearing a heavy canvas jacket, hanging off shoulders broader than he remembered. She looked sharper, a lot more adult, and he recognized subtle signs in the way she was standing. She had weapons on her, or at least a gun in the small of her back.

Ellen ignored Jo, looked at Dean. "Was it his idea to lie to us?"

"No. No! He was against it. He even brought it up with me when he heard me talking to you on the phone, it was all me."

"Doesn't matter whose idea it was. We're your family."

"I know, I…that's why I was trying to keep you safe."

"You don't get to decide," Ellen snapped back, fiercely, "what we can and can't handle. We're all grown-ups here, Sam. Least I thought we were. And after everything we've done for you, don't we deserve to know?" She glared again, but there was something broken and wounded at the tail end of the anger. "I adopted you, Sam. I drained your abscess, I helped you study for your GED, I moved you up to that cabin with Bobby. After all that, d'you not trust me to be able to take care of myself so I can take care of you?"

Sam swallowed, didn't say anything. He had to focus on keeping down all the water he'd just drunk.

"You sound just like Bobby. You're acting just like him." Ellen's volume had dropped. "No, you know what? Not even that. You're acting just like your dad."

Sam tensed, even though it was agony, every nerve in his body fever-frayed and his muscles starved out.

"Ellen," Dean warned quietly, a rumble under his voice. "Back off."

"Dean Singer, I don't care if you're the goddamn king of Hell, you don't get between me and my boy," Ellen shot at Dean. The fire banked again some when she returned her attention to Sam. "But are you even mine anymore?" Sam felt himself flinch, couldn't hide it. "Lying to me about something so big it could wind up…killing you?"

She gestured to him, all of him.

"Might just be the Trials doing this to him," Dean jumped in. "Kind of a miracle he's still standing, and _that_ might be all the Jesus stuff."

"Then you should've told us ages ago, even if there wasn't any Jesus stuff," Ellen told Sam. "Or are you just too intent on being the big damn hero all alone? Don't want anybody hogging the spotlight?"

Sam flinched, and swore he heard a growl somewhere deep in Dean. Ellen was undeterred.

"Or maybe that ain't it. Maybe your daddy just fucked you up so bad that you can't _imagine_ anybody caring about you, or any life where you don't have to die to save people who hate you."

It was like a kick to his ribs, would've knocked Sam right over if Dean hadn't been hanging onto him. He had to look away, the hollow metal flavor of blood burning on his tongue, and apparently that was the wrong thing to do.

"It's bad enough you didn't tell me the truth, Sam." Rage outweighed pain in Ellen's voice. "Can't you at least show me the respect of looking at me when I'm talking to you?"

"I…" Sam wanted to apologize, knew he needed to, but the words wouldn't come out.

"I said look at me, Sam."

He felt sick, he was trembling against Dean, and his vision was blurry. There were thorns and fire in Sam's stomach and he felt so light and loose inside his skin that he was afraid, if he turned his head back towards Ellen, it'd fall right off his neck.

"Are you kidding me right now?!"

The snow crunched, cotton-muffled, as Ellen took a few steps towards Sam. Like she was going to grab him and make him look at her…or, much more likely, she was going to drag him inside and yell at him some more while she warmed him up and made him eat something. Dean stiffened next to Sam, though, almost instinctive.

Sam managed to look at Ellen, finally. Just as she was shoved invisibly backwards a few feet through the snow, stumbling. Jo rushed to catch her.

"Mom!"

Dean's eyes were black. Sam could only see a sliver, because Dean moved him almost entirely behind himself. Cords stood taut underneath the freckles on his neck, snowflakes sat next to them on his skin and didn't melt.

Ellen straightened, Jo's hand on her shoulder. She looked at him, at them, with shock. Like she wasn't even sure who Sam was anymore. But it was more than that, too.

She was looking at Sam like he was something alien, something other. Something she didn't understand and had no desire to. Something so inhuman she just might point the next hunter who came into the Roadhouse in his direction.

Sam was going to throw up again, for sure. He went so far as to bend over, Dean grabbing hard at him like he thought he was going down. But he didn't even gag. Too hollow for that, he guessed.

The snow started picking up. Jo wouldn't look at Sam once he was standing tall again, wouldn't meet his eyes, and there was a rumble deep inside Dean, somewhere in his chest. It couldn't even be called a growl, more like rocks grinding each other slowly into gravel.

"I don't care what you are." When she found her voice, Ellen sounded far away. "Second Coming, Antichrist, whatever. And I don't care what you're in love with, or what you've got following you around, something…" She flung a hand at him. "…is tearing you apart, and whatever it is, I just hope you figure out you can trust us. That you have to. That you don't have to be alone." She swallowed. "Before whatever it is finishes nailing up your coffin for you."

There was another long pause.

"I need to try and figure out how to trust you again before that happens," Ellen said bleakly. "Or even if it does. 'Cause right now, I can't trust you at all."

She turned, Jo's hand falling off her shoulder, and went back into the cabin. The door banged behind her. Jo looked at Sam, took a deep breath, and followed her mother after a second.

"I'm sorry." Dean's voice was so low Sam almost felt it more than he heard it. "Knew she was mad at you, but I had no idea she was gonna start hitting below the belt like that. Last thing you need, especially with…" His grip on Sam loosened, just enough so they could both feel him sway.

"It's fine. It's okay," Sam assured quietly. "You didn't know. And I…I get why she's upset."

They stood out there in the snow a second longer, and Sam imagined he could hear Dean forcing himself to relax. Muscles loosening, teeth ungritting, smoke inside him releasing from the knots it might've tied itself into. His eyes cleared before he looked at Sam and asked, "You wanna go back to the workshop now?"

"No…we're already halfway here. Might as well get in there, say hi to everybody else, let them get their licks in." Sam smiled. Dean didn't. "I'm kidding. You said I've been passed out for over a day back there, 'bout time I got out."

So they went into the cabin, and the warmth had Sam sucking a breath into aching lungs as his eyes prickled. He didn't realize how cold it was out there, how cold he was, or even that he was shivering. Dean seemed reluctant as hell to put any distance between them, but got him another blanket as the dogs greeted him happily. They smelled his blue hands as the color came back and looked up at him with what he swore was concern. When Dean bundled Sam up and sat him down, they curled up at his feet, tails and legs poking out from beneath the table.

Ellen and Jo were nowhere to be seen, but Vaughn was there, as Sam had seen, and hugged him as soon as he got inside. He dragged a chair over so he was practically sitting in Sam's lap, and his very first question was, "Are you okay? You were asleep for so long – "

"I'm fine, I'm fine." Sam cut him off to reassure him. "Just…really tired." Vaughn didn't look convinced. "Honest. I promise. I'm doing way better now."

"You look really, really bad, Sam. And you…don't smell quite right," Vaughn started. "But maybe that's just the whole…Messiah thing."

"You heard all about that, huh?"

"Kinda hard not to." Vaughn shrugged with one shoulder, and Sam braced himself for the accusations. He'd told him about the Trials back in Purgatory, about Dean, about most of the stuff that'd happened since he died…but not everything. The anger didn't come, though.

Dean set a steaming mug in front of Sam but, when he picked it up and looked into it, all he found was water. Not even a teabag. "Dude. Seriously?"

Dean didn't answer him, just stole a couple touches then headed for the stove. He started banging pots and pans around, so Sam gave up and sipped at the water. At least it was hot.

"How've you been doing up here?" Sam asked Vaughn after a second.

"Awesome!" Vaughn answered enthusiastically. "Bobby's been teaching me, just, so much, he says that I remind him of you. And the dogs really didn't like me at first but now I think they're okay."

"You been eating?"

"Oh, yeah." Vaughn nodded vigorously. "There's a hog rendering plant only a town or two over. It's real easy to get brains."

"Must be tough to go back to pig after you've had naga," Sam commented with half a smile.

"No, I-I actually like pigs better, I think." Vaughn rubbed at a stain on the table.

"Really?" Sam asked, surprised.

"Yeah. I…" Vaughn shrugged. "Guess it could be 'cause I'm alive now. Again. And…" He looked around. "I'm eating them here. With you. And everybody else."

Sam didn't say anything. Vaughn was sitting at the table in Bobby's kitchen, in almost exactly the same spot Sam'd seen him in in his first vision. He should've known that he'd be getting him out of Purgatory. He should've remembered that before he ever even went to talk to Death. It felt like it'd been so easy to keep everything organized in his head back at his cabin, column after column of neat mental lists he could run down one by one. Checking everything off.

Out here, he kept forgetting things, making mistakes he knew he was better than. It was like squeezing a melting ice cube and trying to keep the water in his hand even as it ran out from between his fingers and his palm grew numb and aching. So much was getting away from Sam and that terrified him, most of all because he didn't know how to stop it.

Vaughn brought Sam out of the bleak place he'd been staring down. "Your mom is kind of a lot like mine, huh?"

Sam managed to laugh. "Oh, you think so? D'you mean that as a compliment or not?"

As Vaughn was frowning over that, Dean brought Sam a heavy bowl and a spoon. It looked and smelled like chicken broth. Sam examined it, steam beading on his face, then glanced up at Dean.

"You know you don't have to treat me like I'm sick, right?" he asked him quietly.

"Oh, sorry," Dean responded. "Were you expecting a plate of hot wings or something? Yeah, that'd be real easy on your fucking stomach ulcer or whatever, wouldn't it, Sam? Tell you what. Keep that down and you can have some toast. Meal fit for a damn king right there."

He stomped back over to the counter. Vaughn watched him go, looking shocked into silence, then returned his attention to Sam. He swallowed.

"What…what happened? Ulcer? You said you were…"

"I am. It's nothing," Sam promised.

"Think you would've learned your lesson about that," Dean muttered to the cabinets he was throwing open.

Anger rose briefly at Sam's core, a pan flash high in his stomach, but it didn't last. He just didn't have the energy to feed it. He took another weak sip from his mug.

"You telling me you wouldn't've done the same thing?" Sam asked Dean. Dean didn't reply, but his shoulders hitched a little closer together, like somebody had turned a crank between them.

Vaughn opened his mouth like he was about to ask another question. Sam, just setting down his mug, started coughing before he could, deep, wet hacks dragged up from the tails of his lungs. He had to double over, shoving back from the table.

Something stringy and coppery-tasting splattered itself across the back of his front teeth. Once Sam could get in a real breath, he swallowed it, and hoped that it didn't come back up again later.

Dean was there when he straightened up, shoving the bowl at him, stabilizing hand on his shoulder. "Eat something, okay?" It didn't come out as a question. "Can't take any meds or anything without that, and you look like you lost ten pounds in the last two days."

Sam picked up the spoon. Satisfied, Dean backed off…again, reluctantly. Sam could feel Vaughn's eyes, heavy as steel marbles, resting wide on him as he took in a few mouthfuls. There'd been a sick, acid tinge to the scrabbling hunger inside him, but even getting in that little bit mellowed it.

"I'm sick right now," Sam admitted to Vaughn. "That's why I slept so long, and I threw up some…really nasty-looking crap. But it's just 'cause I overdid it. I'll get better, probably pretty soon."

Vaughn bit his lower lip. Jo came in then, rustling up a thermos and going to fill it from the coffeepot. Sam managed not to jump at the sight of her. Dean, though, flickered across the kitchen to land with his hands on Sam's shoulders, leaning protectively over him. He didn't say anything and Jo didn't react.

"Hey," Sam said hesitantly, hearing how weak and rough his voice was from the coughing fit. "Where's…where's your mom?"

"Went down the mountain with Emma Slutson to get a drink," Jo replied flatly, and Sam frowned before realizing she was talking about Bela. "Weather radio says all the mountain roads are gonna wind up snow-blocked before seven p.m., didn't seem to care."

"We got booze here," Dean pointed out.

"She didn't wanna drink here."

"Where's Ash?" Sam asked Jo. "He did come up with you guys, didn't he?"

"In the study with Bobby. Helping him out with computer stuff." Jo shook the last few drops out of the pot. "They've both been having a blast with your…adopted monster orphan or whatever."

"W-what're things like out there?" Sam asked hesitantly after a few seconds.

"Well, this is the first time in at least two months my mom's let me outta her sight." Jo left her thermos on the counter and started searching the kitchen. Sam wasn't sure what she was looking for, with cream and sugar sitting right by the coffeemaker. "And pretty much everybody still hates your guts. We tried to spread the word, about the Trials. But nobody who had it out for you before believed us." She looked over her shoulder at Sam. "We'll probably keep all this new shit to ourselves."

"So you get it, then," Sam blurted. "Why I didn't tell you guys everything right away."

Jo had found the booze cabinet. Pouring more than just a splash of whiskey into her thermos, she didn't answer Sam, staying silent so long he started to wonder if she hadn't even heard him. She spoke up as she capped and replaced the bottle, though, not even turning towards Sam.

"Better call Garth and Charlie soon as you can. They're pissed, too."

"You told them?"

"Of course we told them." Jo screwed up her thermos shut, going so tight metal and plastic squealed against each other. "They're family. We tell them everything."

Sam was going to say something. He wasn't sure what it would've been, and it didn't matter, anyway, since Jo left before he could get so much as a word out. He heard the front door open and slam a second later.

Sam looked down at his broth, stirring slowly. Dean stayed behind him for a second longer, then went around and slid into the chair across from him. He almost casually took Sam's free hand in his own, the most natural thing in the world.

"Ain't exactly being subtle about it, are they?"

"They never are." Sam went at the broth with a purpose. One thing at a time. "Wonder how Ellen's treating Bobby. Pretty sure what he did's worse than me."

"Sure it is," Dean agreed, and Sam heard the smirk in his voice even before he added, "Marion."

"Shut up, Dandelion." Sam reached for his mug.

"Hey, I'm not making fun of you. Just…always thought it was a girl's name."

"Male form of Mary. After my mom." Sam raised his eyebrows. "John Wayne's real name was Marion Morrison."

"The hell it was."

"Yeah. Google it."

Sam managed to get down all of the broth, and the hot water in the mug. It had him feeling worlds better but he still sat tensely for a second, taking stock of everything in his body before he could relax, sure that it wasn't going to come back up. Dean still had his hand, holding it like he wished he had all of Sam in his arms but would settle for now, thumb rubbing back and forth across one of the valleys between his knuckles. He was looking out at the snow and the dogs were still asleep underneath them all. Voices and the rapid-fire clattering of keys rolled out of the study, but Sam knew Dean would stop him if he even tried to get up, much less talk business with Bobby and Ash.

Now that he knew Sam was (more or less) okay, Vaughn was a chatterbox. He talked about the comics Bela had picked up for him in town, the notebooks and pencils and markers, the cabin, the dogs, the library, Bobby and everyone else.

"They didn't…they wanted to keep me locked up, at first," Vaughn said. "Just in case. But, um, Dean vouched for me."

"'Course I did. Us monsters gotta stick together, don't we?"

Dean extended a fist across the table, and Sam watched, forcibly keeping the surprise off his face, as Vaughn bumped it enthusiastically.

"So, sounds like you're doing pretty good," Sam said after a long second.

"Uh huh! Only thing's that it's weird having long hair again." Vaughn touched it, bunched it up at the base of his skull as he eyed Sam. "I think I wanna cut it."

Dean helpfully began, "Oh, hey, I could – "

" _No."_

Everything in the room suddenly buzzed slightly against what it was resting on, and Sam swayed in his chair, blinking spots out of his vision. Dean immediately got up to steady him and Sam leaned gladly into his hands. He hadn't even known he had that in him at the moment.

Vaughn looked startled. Sam apologized.

"Sorry. I just…you really don't want him cutting your hair." Sam tipped his head back to look up at Dean, who scowled.

"No, it's okay. It's actually really cool, all the stuff you can do now…you're like Phoenix."

"He a good guy?" Dean asked, still holding onto Sam. "Got a cool costume and all that?"

"She. And, uh, well, it's kinda – "

Suddenly, the dogs jumped up so hard they knocked Sam's empty dishes right over, starting to bark and snarl as loud as they could.

"Hey, shut up!" Dean yelled. "Christ, what got into 'em?"

Sam looked out the window, half-expecting a deer, half a demon. But it was Castiel. Standing knee-deep in the fresh snow, back to the cabin. The dogs stopped barking after a second and just stood stiff, growling. Everyone else sat there staring out at Castiel for a second. Nobody moved. Sam went to get up and go out to him, but Dean grabbed his arm, and he stayed where he was.

His jaw was tight when Sam looked up, pupils shattered.

Castiel appeared in the kitchen right after that, tablecloth flapping in the wind off his wings. The dogs immediately swung around to face him again, growling sharpened. Castiel didn't seem to notice them, just studied Sam and Dean like he'd never seen either of them before.

"…hey, Cas," Sam greeted hesitantly. Dean was hunched over him again, protective. "How…how'd it go upstairs?"

"It was a productive session." Castiel's voice was flat and cold. Sam hadn't even realized how much feeling was really there until it was all wiped away, frost cleared off a windowpane after words had been written in it. "Zachariah wished to discuss why you were allowed to complete the Second Trial. Why you weren't stopped through any means necessary."

There was a pause as Castiel looked at Dean, then at Sam. He didn't pay any more attention to Vaughn, huddled right against Sam's side, than he did the dogs.

"The time has come for you to start fulfilling your duties as a Messiah, Samuel," Castiel stated. "You've already strayed much further from your intended path than we ever could have anticipated, and we can't afford any more delays…or damage."

"Cas, what the hell're you talking about? Did they tell you what I'm supposed to – " Sam was about to put up as much of a fight as he could muster at the moment, but forced himself to bring it all to a screeching halt when Dean squeezed his shoulders warningly.

There was more silent examination from Castiel, a long few seconds, then he said, "I have to go and stand guard over the property. It's more imperative than ever that you stay safe, Sam. I also have to forbid you from using your powers. All your energy needs to go into healing what the Trials have done to you."

Then he was gone again, whoosh of air, cloud of cold, clean scents. Dean and the dogs relaxed practically in unison, Dean letting out a loud breath above Sam. Sam looked up.

"Thanks for backing me up there." The sarcasm was automatic. "Can't believe you didn't go off on him, too…what the hell happened in Heaven? I don't think he even had that big a stick up his ass when we first met him." Sam caught the look on Dean's face. "What? What's wrong?"

Dean glanced at Vaughn, then dropped his head some, talking quietly to Sam.

"Just looks like his bosses did a little reeducation on him." Dean paused. "Must've hurt like a bitch. Flying back down here with his wings smashed to hell like that."


End file.
